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W SHAfck* C. < fHUniTh BOSTON 









Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, 
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 

Stereotyped and Printed 

By Samuel N. Dickinson & Company, 

52 "Washington St Boston. 

^— '?<'**% 



" A weary world ! " forever cry, 241 

Almighty Thou ! although thy throne, 83 

" All 's Well ! " the gangway sentry cries, 330 

All is right — raise the signal ! 16 

And this was plucked by Friendship's hand, 264 

And who are they that wear such name, 216 

And who is he that 's seeking, 69 

And why should wisdom smile at this ? 112 

Arise, Lord ! look kindly on the deep, 210 

Art flew to bless the virgin world, 46 

Away to the desert the Scape- Goat flies, 124 

Ay, flap your wings, ill-omened birds, 318 

Barbarians of the Southern Sea, 126 

Beautiful tree . of the towering stem ! 76 

Behold where the exalted Son, 245 

Beneath thy folds, O holy Cross ! 110 

Benighted on the troublous main, 201 

Boston ! that sittest in thy pride, 319 

Bring forth the vessels ! borrow more, 23 

Buried once, the sleeping dust, 219 

Burmah's Apostle ! I can style no less, 272 

"E7 awful influence, only lent, 302 


Cease, proud Britons, cease your boastings, 313 

Child of earth and heaven, Repentance, 8 

Childhood, its little grief, 289 

Christian ship, of Turkish title, 256 

City of Penn ! thy streets, 296 

Come out of Egypt, oh mine undefiled, 236 

Come, Mind ! and break from empty night, 39 

Come warriors ! to the earnest fray, Ill 

Could angel choirs demand of earth, 167 

Darkly o'er thee, Palestine ! 82 

Discoursers on the vocal string, ■ 195 

Elect of God ! and who is he ? 6 

Fair as the moon ! celestial Seal, *. • 27 

First Cause ! The Good ! Almighty Thou ! 50 

For conscience bold, our sires of old, 81 

Gathered by the hand of kindness, • 250 

Given is to earth its treasure, 135 

Go, heal the sick ! Go, raise the dead ! 173 

Go, minister of God, 84 

God bless the Puritan, 327 

God of Glory ! when the portals, 13 

God, our God, his power revealing, 55 

God — of earth the only Ruler — 109 

God of our fathers ! while our ears, 207 

Hark ! 'tis the prophet of the skies, 10 

Hast thou never seen, 198 

Heart and hymn, thy sons and daughters, 74 

He came to drink his bitter cup, 64 

He chose the spot, the ground surveyed, 321 

He journeyed on to Galilee, 161 

" He lives, who lives to God alone," 227 

He ministers where busy men, 243 

He sought Moriah's walls, 209 

He sought the Saviour's face to see, 178 


He traverses the fertile fields, 141 

He who bestows a useful book, 271 

He who medicines the sick, 116 

He willed them lands, and tenements, and gold, 262 

His path is the ocean, he maketh his dwelling, 106 

Holy be this, as was the place, 14 

How shall I cherish the desire, 200 

How sweet, beneath the Cross, 4 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! we 've burst the chain, 291 

I bring unto the Font with holy feeling, 71 

I bowed within the house of prayer, 105 

I cannot doubt that Jesus met, 180 

I hailed thy launching forth to life, 202 

I knew thee once where sweeps Ohio's tide, 80 

I learned submission by repeated blows, 16 

I praise not one of woman's mould, 324 

I saw a man who had sojourned where, 79 

I saw thee faint, the hour when came, 206 

I stand where I have stood before, 168 

I stood amid the place of graves, 146 

I stood beside his dying bed, 143 

I stood in silence, and alone, 268 

I trod the walks and velvet green, 305 

I thought not of the inspiration lent, 317 

I walk among the plants and flowers, 122 

I walked in Portsmouth ; 'twas the place, ? 315 

If. in that world of spotless light, 87 

If this low vale of strife and tears, 54 

I '11 look to thee, my Saviour ! when, 131 

Immortal infamy is his, 156 

I'm glad that at length the materials appearing, 189 

I 've told my story ; need my verse, 220 

In our secret souls we know it, 1 14 

In the dew-drop you behold, 255 

It may be, from outbreaking sin, 94 

It may be that the weal of nations, 208 

Jerusalem is silent now. 59 




Joy for the Sabbath day ! 174 

Judea's plains in silence sleep, 49 

Know ye the earth on which ye tread, 196 

Let me live till I am old ! 218 

Lieth here beneath her shroud, 233 

Lift ye my country's banner high, 304 

Long hath the crescent's glittering sign, 97 

Man is wrong in his pursuits, 232 

Man ! who pitiest mortal woe, 162 

Many ways, Jehovah, thou, 222 

Messiah saw r within, 119 

'Mid Traffic's ceaseless thunder, 12 

Modest Beauty praises God, 134 

Mother ! little William lies, 164 

My God, this hour doth thought invite, 171 

My heart took counsel with thy pious heart, 159 

Niagara ! the poetry of God, 186 

" No man of God shall tread this isle," 225 

No moon or planets ruled the hour, 42 

Now up ! ye that have interest, 117 

Angels ! nearest to the King, 77 

Of old, Anacreon woke the song, 294 

O God ! this universal frame, 58 

O God, that I no longer lie, 120 

God ! what clouds of glory rolled, 22 

Oh ! what a voice comes in the stilly hush, 91 

Jesus ! once on Galilee, 163 

O Lord ! at thy throne, a poor Israelite kneeling, 85 

O Lord, my God ! I would not seek, 203 

One day in merry June, I, then a lad, 300 

O parent ! who thy watch art keeping, 153 

Saviour ! wert thou now below, 115 

tell me ! while the blessed ones, 103 

O Thou ! in this dark world of ours, 63 

( vii ) 

O Thou of Calvary ! Thou didst bear, 257 

Thou ! that plcad'st with pitying love, 52 

O Thou Unseen, Almighty God ! 205 

Over that child, now sunk in shame, 36 

O why should this poor world of ours, 228 

Rain ! Rain ! from out thy clouds, 298 

Rich men ! a voice of Pity 's calling, 11 

Right glad was I, when round me, 183 

Seller of purple ! Listener to the word, 155 

Seven planets keep around the sun, 123 

Shall I be dumb, whose harp was slave, 252 

She had his holy influence felt, 136 

She turned her from the empty cell, 3 

Some joy it has been mine to know, 158 

Stand ye ! on whom, in duty's path, 99 

Star of the East ! the Shepherd's Star ! 152 

Such is the Good ! go, thou, survey the Good ! 192 

Sweet out of bitter God designed, 237 

Sweet Heaven ! to know thee holy, 188 

Sweet Sabbath ! gift of heaven, that selfish man, 157 

Teacher ! at the feet of love, 266 

That Look ! when eye met eye — what power, 78 

That the marrow and the pith, 286 

That tossing vessel's silver wake, 47 

The angel ranks that gird the throne, 53 

The angels' song that happy night, 73 

The Church is graven on thy hands, 33 

The Church is slumbering. She that once awoke, 60 

The heart to heart, the face to face, 41 

The judgment day ! the judgment day ! 107 

The mitre rims a brow 17 

The Plague ! the Plague ! bring out your dead, 299 

The ransomed spirit to her home, • • • 44 

The seal of the covenant given, 176 

The Soldiers of the Cross, 38 

The starry angels break the gloom, 20 

( viii ) 

There is an hour of hallowed peace, 249 

There is an hour of peaceful rest, 1 

The Widow's Mite ! who ever saw, 101 

They say the goblet's crowned with flowers, 290 

They tell of the region of bliss. 170 

They've reared the Organ. He whose fond desire, 197 

This book, my Mother ! was designed for thee, 331 

This Earth, to the thorn and the briar now given, 258 

This is thy grave. I 'd rather sleep, 312 

Thou who look'st to Caesar's seat, 24 

Though pouting out with youth and health, 98 

Thy blessing, gracious Providence, 261 

Thy people come with one accord, 34 

Tiberias battles with the storm, 211 

*T is good for us to rest to-day, 259 

'Tis Midnight — and on Olive's brow, 273 

'T is pleasant in the courts of God, 270 

'T is so ! He that made the good creature for use, 280 

J T is to the East the Hebrew bends, 62 

'T is well with her who on that bed, 145 

To gorgeous burial goes the monarch, 193 

To him, at strife with conscience, sleep, 239 

Tomato ! thou art like the mind, 277 

To saved ones that dwell in the bowers of heaven, 140 

To see, my Lord, thy body thus, 177 

True it is, weary toiler, 215 

Two partners traded in that busy town, 310 

Union prevails in heaven, from Him, 56 

Vineyard of the Lord ! thy treasures, 160 

"Wait thou on Jehovah ! instructively cries, 88 

Wake ! isles of the South, your redemption is near, 2 

We bear along our toilsome way, 67 

Weep not when sad distress is nigh, 51 

We garnish the grave of the chief, 307 

We give Thee not a shrine of gold, 260 

Well, now I have bent this sapling right, 311 


We may to our companion go, 230 

We sadly seek the waiting tomb, 45 

"We 've heard that round the wine-cup ? s brim, 293 

"We wander in a thorny maze, 48 

What a spiritual expression, 72 

"What a sweet silence lingers on thy hills, 23 

"What, on thy boundless path of foam, 30 

"Whene'er long night the bursting dawn, 108 

"When my spirit leaves the clay, 92 

"When the great captains and the mighty men, 100 

"When sorrow casts its shade around, 61 

"Where warrior feet once pressed the soil, 57 

"Where Whitefield sleeps, remembered, in the dust, 283 

"While the solemn note of Time, 151 

"Who cares for Jack ? not one ! not one ! 102 

"Who seeks her Lord in glorious guise, 148 

"Who shall, with blessing, lift abroad, • 187 

"Why, on darkness of the night, 90 

"Will he never return ? — will the Jew, 212 

Wine of Cyprus, not for me, 149 

Would I were with them ! they are free, 32 

Wouldst thou be cleansed from every taint, 132 

Yea, thou forbearest, Lord, 129 

This volume is the second of a series, comprising 
my revised Poems; of which, "Poetry of the 
Heart," published a year since, is the first. 


Set to Music by A. P. Heinrich. 

There is an hour of peaceful rest 
To mourning wanderers given ; 
There is a joy for souls distressed — 
A balm for every wounded breast — 
'T is found alone in Heaven. 

There is a soft, a downy bed, 

Far from these shades of even — 
A couch for weary mortals spread, 
Where they may rest the aching head, 
And find repose in Heaven. 

There is a home for weary souls, 

By sin and sorrow driven ; 
When tossed on life's tempestuous shoals, 
Where storms arise, and ocean rolls, 

And all is drear — 'tis Heaven. 

There Faith lifts up her cheerful eye, 

To brighter prospects given" — 
And views the tempest passing by, 
The evening shadows quickly fly, 
And all serene in Heaven. 


There fragrant flowers immortal bloom, 

And joys supreme are given ; ; 
There rays divine disperse the gloom'-*- 
Beyond the confines of the tomb 
Appears the dawn of Heaven. 


Written November, 1819, on occasion of the departure from the United 
States of the first Missionary band for the Sandwich Islands. 

Wake, Isles of the South ! your redemption is near; 

No longer repose on the borders of gloom ; 
The Strength of His chosen in love will appear, 

And light shall arise on the verge of the tomb. 

The billows that gird ye, the wild waves that roar, 
The zephyrs that play when the ocean-storms cease, 

Shall bear the rich freight to your desolate shore, 
Shall waft the glad tidings of pardon and peace. 

On the Islands that sit in the regions of night, 
The lands of despair, to oblivion a prey, 

The Morning will open with healing and light, 
The glad Star of Bethlehem will usher the Day. 

The altar and idol in dust overthrown, 

The incense forbade that was offered in blood, 

The Priest of Melchizedec there shall atone, 
And the shrines of Hawaii be sacred to God ! 


The heathen will hasten to welcome the time 
The day-spring the prophet in vision once saw, 

When the beams of Messiah shall gladden each clime, 
And the Isles of the Ocean shall wait for his law. 

And thou, Obookiah ! now sainted above, 

"Wilt rejoice as the heralds their mission disclose ; 

And the prayer will be heard, that the land thou didst love 
May blossom as Sharon, and bud as the Rose ! 

" MARY ! — RABBONI ! » 
John xx. 16. 

She turned her from the empty cell, 

Where late the Prince of Glory lay ; 
A shadow on her spirit fell, — 
Her Lord was borne away. 
"If thou hast spoiled the tomb, 
And for its new-born light 
Hast left the pall of ancient gloom, 
wanderer of the night — 
Tell me!" 

He looked into her earnest eyes, 

Where lately shone Hope's dazzling dew ; 
Her lips, of the carnation dyes, 

Now of the lily's hue, 
He saw were quivering with dismay. 

One word could light those eyes again, 
And banish every grief away; 



One word bring back the lips' sweet red, 
One word restore the dead, 

And pleasure substitute for pain ; 
'T was music when he spake it : 
" Mary ! " 

She turned herself — and from that face 

Of beauty every care was fled, 

And in its stead 
Was much of grace, 

And something meekly proud. 

As look our skies, when midnight's cloud 
Is chased, and they are overspread 

With morning's early blush, so she, 

The spirit of young Piety, 
Divinely looked, when answering 
" Rabboni ! " 


How sweet, beneath the Cross, 
At once, subdued, to lie ; 

Soon as I feel my loss, 
To find my gain is nigh ; 

Without the prelude of alarms, 

To fall into my Saviour's arms. 

How blest, impelled by gales 
Of Love, the port to win ; 



Never to furl the sails, 

Till safely moored within. 
To anchor in the sheltered bay, 
Without one tempest by the way ! 

A few reach Canaan's land, 

Nor meet a single blast ; 
They sing with Victory's band, 

But not of perils past. 
No lions on their pathway wait, 
No " slough," hard by the " wicket gate." 

0, such was not my course, 

When groping for the light ; 
Waves moaned and winds were hoarse, 

And bitter was the night. 
Across a gulf my vessel flew, 
To halcyon Hope I bade adieu. 

Storms rose and swept the deck, 

The flying sails were rent ; 
And I, a helpless wreck, 

O'er dreadful seas was sent; 
A feather by the tempest tost, — 
O, no ! — a spirit well nigh lost. 

I plucked a way-side staff, — 

'Twas but a broken reed; 
I rallied song and laugh, — 

They failed me at my need. 
Ambition, Pleasure, Riches, Care ; — 
They all resigned me to Despair. 



Till, to rny utmost need, 

The Heavenly Leader came ; 
I knew him — for my deed 

Had put him, once, to shame. 
What said He ? — to my passions, " Cease ! " 
And straight my troubled soul had peace. 

Methinks, my final song, — 

Final, yet ending never, — 
Will cheerful praise prolong, 

To my dear Lord forever : 
Who, when I such hard passage trod, 
My feet with full deliverance shod. 



Elect of God ! and who is he ? 

What path by him is trod, 
Shut up to few, to all men free, 

Where throng the Elect of God ? 
Unriddle ye the maze, who can ; 

The mystery explore 
For me, a weary, wildered man, 

Who longs to find the door. 

Elect of God ! — he who repents ; 
Reforms, without, within ; 


Who loathes all evil thoughts, intents, 

And every darling sin ; 
Hating his lusts and loving Christ, 

He unawares hath trod 
The happy path to peace unpriced ; 

He is Elect of God. 


But what, if wandering far from home, 

A beggar in his woe, 
He chooses, though rebuked, to roam 

As rebels love to go ; 
What if sin-wrecked and idly tost 

By every wind and wave, 
He joins the innumerable lost 

Whose voyage is to the grave ? 

Still, if he turns, with suppliant knee — 

Though viler never trod 
This earth — by Him who stained the tree, 

That Man's Elect of God ! 
And God will find him, though he dwell 

Where darkness hath its seat, — 
Will reach him, though the waves of hell 

Were surging at his feet. 


Yet what, if, having tasted bliss 

Unspeakable, he goes 
Away from Christ, and with a kiss 

Betrays him to his foes ? 


Is he, who takes the Bread and Wine, 

And takes the price of blood, 
Yea, gloats upon that silver's shine, 

Indeed, Elect of God ? 


Thou art the man I — what hast thou done ! 

Say, wretch, for which of all 
His gifts, thy treason, that hath won 

For thee such dreadful fall ? 
Yet turn thee ! turn thee ! Wondrous Love, 

Though thou the depths hast trod, 
If thou repent, will lift above 

Thy sin, the Elect of God. 


Child of earth and heaven, Repentance ! 

Of our solemn joys a part, 
Riddle to the rebel bosom, 

Solved by every lowly heart, — 

Thou, the moment I beheld thee, 

Wast ajlend to my despair ; 
Presently, in clearer vision, 

Wast a Seraph, passing fair. 

Then I loved thee, then embraced thee, 
Then I tasted bliss divine ; 




Talk they of superior pleasures ? 
Angels might have envied mine. 

Happy angels, with their harpings, 
Standing on the crystal floor, 

Never knew his blessed sorrow, 
Who, forgiven, loves the more. 

Darkened Earth, a wandering planet 
From its Centre and its Sun, 

Has a joy obedient Heaven, 
Shining Heaven, never won. 

Hand in hand with me, Repentance, 
Close companion, since has trod ; 

Thus — till on me gleam the turrets, 
And the battlements of God : 

Thus — to Jordan's swelling river, 
Weeping, singing to the gate ; 

Part we then, and part forever, 
Where the steeds and chariot wait, 

God forgive the tear I render ! 

God account it not a sin 
If a thought of sweet Repentance 

Steals to Heaven and enters in! 


Arise, shine, for thy light is come. — Isa. lx. 1. 

Hark ! 't is the prophet of the skies 
Proclaims Redemption near ; 

The night of death and bondage flies, 
The dawning tints appear. 

Zion from deepest shades of gloom 

Awakes to glorious day ; 
Her desert-wastes with verdure bloom, 

Her shadows flee away. 

To heal her wounds, her night dispel, 
The heralds* cross the main ; 

On Calvary's awful brow, they tell 
That Jesus lives again. 

From Salem's towers the Islam sign 

With holy zeal is hurled, 
And there Immanuel's symbols shine, 

His banner is unfurled. 

The gladdening news conveyed afar, 

Remotest nations hear ; 
To welcome Judah's rising star, 

The ransomed tribes appear. 

Again in Bethlehem swells the song, 

The choral breaks again ; 
While Jordan's shores the strains prolong, 

" Good will and peace to men ! " 

* Missionaries to Palestine. 



Written for the Twelfth Anniversary of the Children's Friend Society, 
Boston : Dec. 7, 1845. 

Rich men ! a voice of Pity 's calling 

From downy beds and gilded domes ; 
Hear it ! in blessings round you falling, 

In sumptuous ease and gorgeous homes ; 
Telling of limbs that Penury crushes, 

Of minds, diseased without a cure ; 
Speaking of eyes whence sorrow gushes, 

Of cheerless hearths and haunts impure. 

Parents ! a voice of Love is stealing 

From those dear shouts of infant glee ; 
Tender its tones, to you appealing, 

u By Him who slept on Mary's knee ! " 
Asking, for little wanderers, driven, 

— As He once was on Misery's wave — 
That now to them shall Hope be given, 

"With hearts to shield, and hands to save. 

Hark ! to the prayer your own sweet Childhood 

Sends from the distant Past for these ! 
Lifnng their hands — that home and wildwood — 

Those walks and old familiar trees; — 
Yon hear ! you hear ! and still reclining 

On blessings, radiant from above, 
Will show, by deeds, the light that 's shining 

Within you, is the light of Love ! 





'Mid Traffic's ceaseless thunder, 

'Mid Politics' rude din, 
'Mid Pleasure's disappointing toil, 

'Mid crowds that worship Sin, 
A little band of travellers 

Unmoor, to-day, their bark ; — 
Eeligion tracking half the globe 

In her unnoticed ark. 

A little band, unfurling 

Their canvass to the wind ; 
Their homesteads and their native land 

Exchanging for the Ind. 
Their eyes the last look seizing, — 

Lip pressed to quivering lip, 
Imparting, taking worlds of love — 

Farewell, thou blessed Ship ! 

They lodged within our city, 

Its proud ones knew them not, 
Nor dreamed on those devoted men 

Was laid a glorious lot ; 
Nor that those meek-eyed women, 

Who counted diamonds dross, 
In their transparent loveliness 

Were jewels of the Cross. 



Unceasing Traffic thunders, 

Eude Politics is loud, 
And Pleasure disappoints the heart, 

And Sin allures the crowd. 
They perish — but the labors 

Of these will Mercy own, 
While stand the palaces of God, 

While Jesus fills a throne. 


Written for the Opening of the Xew Sailors' Home, Boston, Nov. 3, 1845. 

God of Glory ! when the portals 

Of thy grace were lifted up, 
And to bring in lost immortals 

Jesus drank the dreadful cup, 
He, in paths of constant sorrow, 

Wearily was seen to roam ; 
He, the Builder, stooped to borrow, 

For his earthly need, a Home. 

We would give, from bosoms lowly, 

Thanks that ice possess an ark 
Lit within by Love that 'a holy, 

When without the world is dark ; 
Where thy bounty, care dispelling, 

— Be it hut or lordly dome — 
Gilds the spot we make our dwelling 

With the nameless charms of Home. 


God of Goodness ! we, to praise Thee, 

For thy works below, above, 
Do, in joyful offering, raise thee 

This, our monument of love. 
To the Sailor, to Jehovah, 

To the friendless, forced to roam, 
Holy Ghost, and Son that 's over, 

Kingdoms, Powers, we give this Home. 

God of Pity ! that in gladness 

Ocean's wanderer here may rest ; 
God of Bethel ! that in sadness 

He may be in Jesus blest. 
Pass, Earth, as clouds of even 

Flit athwart the azure dome ! 
Even then, to such is given 

Rest in an eternal Home. 


Holy be this, as was the place 

To him, of Padan-aram known, 
When Abraham's God revealed his face, 

And caught the pilgrim to the throne. 
Oh! how transporting was the glow 

That thrilled his bosom, mixed with fear, 
" Lo ! the Eternal walks below — 

The Highest tabernacles here ! " 


Be ours, when faith and hope grow dim, 

The glories that the Patriarch saw ; 
And when we faint, may we, like him, 

Fresh vigor from the vision draw. 
Heaven's lightning hovered o'er his head, 

And flashed new splendors on his view, - 
Break forth, thou Sun! and freely shed 

Glad rays upon our Bethel too. 

'T is ours to sojourn in a waste 

Barren and cold as Shinar's ground ; 
No fruits of Eschol charm the taste, 

No streams of Meribah are found ; 
But Thou canst bid the desert bud 

With more than Sharon's rich display, 
And Thou canst bid the cooling flood 

Gush from the Rock and cheer the way. 

"We tread the path thy people trod, 

Alternate sunshine, bitter tears ; 
Go Thou before, and with thy rod 

Divide the Jordan of our fears. 
Be ours the song of triumph given, — 

Angelic themes to lips of clay, — 
And ours the holy harp of heaven, 

Whose strain dissolves the soul away. 



" Cjesar Malan says, that his conversion to the Lord Jesus might be 
compared to what a child experiences, when his mother awakes him 
with a kiss.'* — Wanderings of a Pilgrim. 

I learned submission by repeated blows. 

The Spirit's hammer broke my stubborn heart, 

Driving its adamantine core apart ; — 
How needed, He who smote me only knows ! 
And now, when tampering with my devilish foes, 

I try to slip His service, comes the stroke, 

And beats me back again to Mercy's yoke. 
Thou, when thou saw'st the crimson tide that flows 

Down Calvary, wast in pleasing slumber bound, 
Dreaming of quick obedience, and how sweet 

To yield at once ! — how ravishing the bliss ! 

And so in holy likeness thou wast found, 
Waking, all satisfied, at Jesus' feet, — 

As wakes a babe with the fond mother's kiss. 


11 With the breaking of day, her spirit fled to the world of light. A little 
while before, with almost the last powers of utterance, she exclaimed, ad- 
dressing one of her brothers, in words which rose to almost a sublimity of 
triumph, " All is right, H , all is right — raise the signal ! " 

All is right — raise the signal ! 

Yield thee, unreluctant breath ; 
What remains ? all is finished ; 

Work thy will with me, Death ! 

All is right that God has given ; 

Only wrong what I have done ; — 
Raise the signal ! I 'm accepted, 

So are all that trust His Son ! 

All is right that God has taken, 
Though my spirit did rebel ; 

Bless the Lord ! his fiery furnace 
Purifies the spirit well. 

Hear me groaning, panting, crying ; 

See me on this rack recline ; 
In my exit doubly dying, 

With a double victory mine ! 

Call it suffering ? yes ! the river 
Foams along in deep midnight ; 

Call it terror ? no ! a finger 

Leads me on with threads of light. 

Over, over, almost over ; — 
Is this Heaven wrapping me ? 

All is right — raise the signal ! 
Jesus ! conquer I through Thee ! 

11 The Bishop of your Souls" — I Peter, 2: 25. 

The mitre rims a brow, 
Once pierced by thorns, Oh Church ! for thee ; 



And if that Sufferer is " no Bishop," thou 
A " Church " canst never be. 

His title, Very God ; 
His wondrous office to renew, 

By toil and tears, and groans and blood, 
An empire, all untrue. 

His title, Very Man ; 
In human flesh to walk below, 

And, in fulfilment of Redemption's plan, 
To exhaust the cup of human woe. 

" His birth was on this wise." 
When bashful Night had melted into Morn, 

And where o'er Bethlehem arched the Syrian skies, 
Mortals were told, " the Christ is born." 

For psaltery was there, 

And all the melody of heaven, 
And strings and voices in mid air, 

Telling, " The Christ is given." 

" Glory! Glory! Glory! 
Good will has come to Earth ; 

Glory ! Glory ! Glory ! 
Peace is born at Jesus' birth ! " 

He from the manger came, 
In his simplicity rebuking kings, 

His looks were love, his words were flame; 
To friends what love ! to foes what fiery stings ! 


Hungered, athirst and faint, 
Thy Bishop by the poor was fed ; 

Shunned, as polluted by the leper's taint, 
Where should he lay his head ? 

Unmitred by the maniac crew, 
Uncrowned, unhonored, and beneath the ban ; 
Scourged by the Roman ; crucified by Jew ; 
" Behold the Man ! " 

The Murdered lives ! 
The Buried triumphs over death and hell ! 

" The Man of Sorrows " wealth of blessing gives, 
Worlds may not buy nor sell. 

He rules the Church ; 
He leads His " little flock ! " 

For the poor way-side wanderer maketh search ; 
And plants the feeble on a Rock. 

He takes the Infant up ; 
When He "confirms," whose faith is not heaven-strong? 

The pearl of bliss in His communion cup 
Does not to Earth belong. 

The Omnipresent — He 
Is Intercessor at the court above ; 

And where, below, are gathered u two or three," 
Hovers His wing of love ; 

Whether where pilgrim dips 
His parched mouth in Oriental streams ; 

Or where on sailor, worshipping midships, 
Forgiveness beams ; 


"Whether in log-house, hid 
By the deep foliage of the western wild ; 

Or where the city spires do not forbid 
To enter Poverty's sad child. 

Come ! thou of England's creed, - 
Nursed in the lap of regal power ; 

Come ! thou, the exiled one of prayer and need, 
Cradled in trial's hour ; 

Churchman! and Puritan! 
Seeking alike His face ; 

Who in Hope's quiet, or Sin's battle-van, 
Perish without His grace : 

Come ! at His footstool fall ; 
His children, are ye not His own? 

His purchased ? Oh ! 't is sweet to give Him all, 
Who occupies the throne ! 

" And there appeared an angel from heaven, strengthening him." 

The starry angels break the gloom 

That wraps the silent Garden round, 
For where its olive sheds perfume, 

The God lies weeping on the ground. 
Prelusive to the mournful night, 

Whose shadows will His glory dim, 
The great Creator bows His might, 

A lowly angel strengthens Him. 


Inexplicable, awful hour, 

When Justice held the penal cup, 
And God, the Maker, borrowed power 

To bear the grief and drink it up ! 
When Sin had mixed the bitter draught, 

And Judgment spiced it to the brim, 
And Death, exulting, shook his shaft, 

The hour an angel strengthened Him ! 

Oh ! blessed angel ! in the choirs 

Of shining heaven, where art thou ? 
Mid flaming hosts and thundering lyres, 

Where dost thou, radiant angel, bow ? 
Art thou not nearest to the throne, 

And swiftest of the cherubim. 
Who, of thy fellows, didst alone 

Appear from heaven to strengthen Him ? 

Sweet wonders of the sacred Cross ! 

Sweet mysteries, big with new delight ! 
What are all joys to you but dross? 

What are all shades with you but light ? 
I '11 sing where sings the Christian crowd, 

I '11 sing where sings the Seraphim, 
How low for me the Maker bowed, 

That e'en an angel strengthened Him ! 



Written for the Dedication of the Church of the Pilgrimage, Plymouth, 
Massachusetts; 1S40. 

God, what clouds of glory rolled 

Around within thy house of old! 

To dedicate that house, what throngs 

Its pavement trod ! — what prayers ! what songs ! 

Moriah's awful mount was there, 
And thoughts of Abraham's faith and prayer 
Came up where Israel's thousands knelt, 
Where God between the cherubs dwelt. 

Yet not less Glory's cloud around 
This house is seen, and o'er this ground ; 
Not less sweet thoughts of faith appear, 
Not less the Hebrews' God is here. 

Yon Bay, whose stormy waters bore 
The Child of Promise to this shore, 
Yon Mount, where sacrifice was made, 
And where the patriarch's bones are laid, 

Are holy. — Thou that led'st thy flock, 
Our Pilgrim Fathers, to this Rock, 
As thou wast then their staff and rod, 
Be thou to-day the children's God. 

On ground wet with their frequent tear, 
Ye Gates, that now with joy we rear, 
Be lifted ! — " Yet to whom lift we ? " 
Oh! Trinity! to Thee! to Thee! 





"What a sweet silence lingers on thy hills, 
Along thy rivers and fair vales to-day, 
New England ! As it every passion stills, 
Unholy thoughts take wing and flee away ; 
While the glad passengers the influence feel 
Of Sabbath sights and sounds, such as them greet 
When sloping upland, lawn, and field reveal 
The thronging yeomanry with willing feet 
Hasting to Zion. Hark ! the village bells 
Joyfully call each to the other, telling, 
As their rich music o'er the landscape swells, 
That the Great King of kings to-day is dwelling ' 
In temples made with hands. Oh haste, and bow 
Before the Lord, the Sovereign Maker, now! 


* And it came to pass, when the vessels were full, that she said unto 
her son, * Bring me yet a vessel.' And he said unto her, * There is not a 
vessel more.' And the oil stayed." — II. Kings, iv. 6. 

" Bring forth the vessels ! borrow more, 

Of all thy neighbors, not a few ; 

God, who regards the widow's store, 

Her slender pittance will renew." 

Then did the widow's heart rejoice ; 
No more in penury's depths to toil ; 


Those vessels, at the prophet's voice, 
She sees run o'er with precious oil. 

" And yet bring more ! " No more were brought, 
And straight the flowing treasure stayed 
God ! how fully we are taught 
That thus we bound thy Spirit's aid. 

For when the Oil of Grace, in store 
Unmeasured, flows for ready hearts, — 

Hearts, emptied of their pride, no more 
Appear, and slighted Grace departs. 



Thou, who look'st to Caesar's seat, 
Claiming to be called a King — 
Yet for purple, sceptre, ring, 
Showest coarsest covering, 
Crownless head and naked feet ; 
Wanderer ! for sedition ripe ; 
Poverty's true prototype ; 
Monarch ! with no lictors, guards ; 
Lauded not by courtly bards ; 
With no symbol, save a scrip ; 
With no herald, save the lip 
Of these stricken Fishermen ; 
Thou, whom stirred Jerusalem 


Sees, a prisoner, forlorn, 
Hither dragged in scorn ; 
Homeless one ! 
Thou, God's Son ? 
Thou claim the diadem ? 
Flouted by the base, 
Spit upon the face, 
Scourged, a very slave, 
Canst thou save ? 
Bound, at my palace gates, 
Where ready Justice waits 
The traitor ; — thou 
Of open brow, 
And all unblushing face, 
Who canst our temple rase, 
And in three days each tower 
Build again with devilish power, 
Art thou, a wretch undone, 
Whom Jew and Gentile shun, 
On whom the thief hath trod, 
Indeed, the Blessed Son 
Of God? 

Yea, listen, Priest ! 
Who countest me as least ; 
Who dost the Judge assume, 
Exulting at my doom ; 
Who see'st me thus uncrowned, 
With malefactors bound ; 
Where, at thy palace gates, 
Stern Justice waits 


The traitor. Now 

Listen ! for thou 

Shalt stand, 

When, at the high right hand 

Of Power, I sit, as Son, 

My rebel kingdom won ; — 

What time men leave their shrouds, 

Heaven lost, hell gained ; — 

Thyself, a trembling one, 

Myself, the Judge, on clouds ; 

The universe arraigned 

Before my righteous bar, 

While every world that seemed a star 

Shall crisp in flame ; 

Thou shalt behold my Name ! 

On Him, of Bethlehem, 

Mark the diadem, 

And in the Nazarene — 

The base, the mean — 

Shalt see revealed 

The Everlasting Shield, 

And Hope of Israel ! Yea, 

When thy hopes flee away, 

Shalt know, indeed, the Lamb, 

Slain, vainly, for thy sin — 

Who lost that thou might'st win, 

Is He, Son of the Blessed ! 

Who now, mid Roman wrong and Jewish jest, 

The cries of Hell and Death, 

The High Priest answereth : 

I AM ! 



" When they were returned out of the garden from the bath, the inter- 
preter took them, and looked upon them, and said unto them, ' Fair as the 
moon ! * Then he called for the seal, wherewith they used to be sealed 
that were washed in his bath. So the seal was brought, and he set his 
mark upon them, that they might be known in the place, whither they 
were yet to go; and the mark was set between their eyes. This seal 
greatly added to their beauty, for it was an ornament to their faces. It also 
added to their gravity, and made their countenances more like those of 
angels." — The Pilgrim's Progress. 

" Fair as the moon ! " celestial Seal, 

Oh for thy mark of blessing ! 
Meek ornament — I pant to feel 

The sign my brow impressing. 
To cleanse sin's spot, and make me fair, 
Beyond what beauteous angels are, 

Is thy strange power, Religion ! 

" Fair as the moon ! " — woe 's me ! unclean ! 

Where folly in commotion 
Upcasts its mire, I long have been 

Disporting in the ocean. 
To thy dear Bath, my Lord, I flee ; 
So ! bring the Seal — affix on me, 

Eternally, Religion ! 

Now will I tell what wondrous charm 

Hath Mercy's crystal waters, 
To cleanse the soul, the passions calm 

Of misery's sons and daughters. 
Now will I sing the blessed Seal, 
Whose outward impress doth reveal, 

Throned in the heart — Religion ! 


" Fair as the moon I " ingenuous youth ! 

Who long'st to lift the curtain, 
And gaze beyond, and know, for truth, 

What now is hope uncertain, — 
Wouldst thou, by prescience, ills forego ? 
Wear thou her Seal and thou shalt know 

His state, who finds Religion ! 

Though simple, unsuspecting thou, 
Yet constant perils find thee ; 

Yea, though a willing victim now, 
Sin's dreadful fetters bind thee ; 

Thou hast no fear, thou know'st no pain, 

Nor see'st thy cell, nor feel'st thy chain — 
Blind, lost, without Religion ! 

" Fair as the moon ! " — along this dark 
Wild road, by perils driven, — 

Oh fragile woman ! wear the mark, 
That pitying Love hath given. 

On dangerous land, on stormy sea, 

A certain panoply will be 
The talisman, Religion ! 

How blest to-day avails thee not ; 

How free life's book from sorrow — 
The smile 's there now — a tear will blot 

That various leaf to-morrow ! 
Let light shine down upon the page 
Of youth, maturity, and age — 

The only light, Religion ! 

'T is all thou need'st, thou village maid ! 
To make thy beauty glorious ; 


Though in unequalled charms arrayed, 

And o'er all hearts victorious, — 
One thing thou lackest ; — part with gold, 
Yea, all, to buy, what can't be sold 
For worldly dross, Religion ! 

Thou city's pride ! — the speaking face, 
Where mind informs each feature ; 

The faultless form, and matchless grace, 
That make the perfect creature — 

These, that thou thus rejoicest in, 

Win earth ; but heaven they cannot win ; 
Nought doth it, but Religion ! 

'T is all thou need'st to make thy life 
A day of white -winged hours ; 

From all its care-paths weeding strife, 
The thorn from all its flowers. 

'T will soothe away the latent sigh, 

'T will cheer thee when thou com'st to die ; 

Nought doth it but Religion ! 

© © 

Yea, when before Him thou'lt appear, 

Whose ways are Everlasting, 
Thy gentle spirit need not fear, 

But, crowns and praises casting 
Before His feet, thou shalt rejoice, 
And with the ransomed lift thy voice — 

Who wear the Seal, Religion ! 




What, on thy boundless path of foam, 

Oh, everlasting Sea ! 
Of all that hail thee as their home — 

Hast thou most dear to me ? 

The merchant ship, whose precious gums 

And ambergris and gold, 
Are heaped, the price of princely sums, 

Deep in her teeming hold — 

The barque, that gaily seeks the breeze 

On embassy of state ; 
Round which the willing winds and seas 

Obsequious seem to wait — 

Or the proud bulwark of the deeps, 
"Whose warring thunders play ; 

That bristling for the combat, keeps 
Stern watch on thy highway ? 

Not these ! not these ! for still they bear 

Those of the worldly brow ; 
And men disturbed with fruitless care, 

Press o'er thy billows now. 

Not these, not these, Deep ! for they 

Man's purposes perform ; 
His lusts and passions to obey, 

They court thy frequent storm. 


But who are they that as a cloud 

And doves are hovering near ; 
Bearing unto the lost and proud 

Their freight of glorious cheer ? 

None, bird-like, sit upon thy crest 

So beautiful as these ; 
None, statelier, have ever prest 

Through thy tall surging seas. 

The Mission Ships! — ride on thy waves 

No treasures like to them : 
Ocean ! within thy secret caves 

Is hidden no such gem. 

For holy footsteps tread that deck, 

Of men who bear away 
Riches, that shall survive the wreck 

Of the last dreadful day. 

And journeys o'er thy mighty tide 

A Mission, vast and high 
From the world's Monarch, who has died, 

To man who may not die. 



" Now just as the Gates were opened to let in the Men, I looked in 
after them, and behold, the City shone like the sun ; the streets also were 
paved with gold ; and in them walked many men with crowns upon their 
heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps to sing praises withal." 
" There were also of them that had wings ; and they answered one 
another without intermission, saying, 'Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord.* 
And after that they shut up the Gates ; which, when I had seen, I wished 
myself among them." — Pilgrim'' s Progress. 

Would I were with them ! — they are free 
From all the cares they knew below, 
And strangers to the strifes that we 
Encounter in this vale of woe. 
From storms of sorrow and of pain 
Forever are they garnered in, 
Secure from sad defilement's stain, 
The mildew and the blight of sin. 

Would I were with them ! — they embrace 
The loved ones, lost, long years before ; 
What joy to gaze upon the face 
That never shall be absent more ! 
There friends unite who parted here 
At Death's cold river, Oh how sadly ! 
Forgotten are the sigh and tear, 
Their hearts are leaping — Oh how gladly ! 

Would I were with them ! — they behold 
Their Saviour, glorious and divine ; 
They touch the cups of shining gold, 
And in his kingdom drink new wine. 



How flash, like gems, their brilliant lyres 
Along the sparkling walls of heaven, 
When, from his radiance catching fires, 
The song of songs to Christ is given ! 

Would I were with them ! — while without 

Are sighs and weeping, they, within, 

For very joy and gladness shout, 

And well they may, who 're free from sin ! 

this, indeed, is Heaven above ; 

This fills the bliss of every soul — 

To grow in holiness and love, 

As age on age shall ceaseless roll. 


Written for the Fiftieth Anniversary of an Ordination. 

The Church is graven on Thy hands, 

Her walls before Thee shine ; 
God, the worship and the word 

And ministry are Thine. 
She, the Eestorer, sitteth where 

Our ruined planet weeps, — 
When will she sing the Jubilee 

That Earth, the ransomed, keeps ? 

Thine only is it to appoint 
Her watchmen for their toil ; 

The unction shed upon their hearts, 
Upon their heads the oil. 


Of those, anointed, some forsake 

Their post in peril's hour ; 
And Death has bowed the strong and tall 

And crushed the manly flower. 

Yet these thy servant long has led, — 

The favored of the flocks ; — 
How kindly Grace has touched his heart ! 

How gently Time his locks ! 
And he has formed the vigorous mind 

In Wisdom's heavenly mould ; 
And he has watched the little lambs 

That bleat about the fold. 

And longer on these noble walls 

May he, Lord, remain ; 
And in the conflicts of the Cross 

Still newer trophies gain. 
And Thou, for Zion's thronging sons 

Her gates wilt open wide 
And gifts, beyond the pearls and gold 

Shall deck the Church, the Bride. 


For the Dedication of the remodelled Congregational Church in Man- 
chester, Mass. — 1846. 

Thy people come with one accord 
To bless thy Holy Name to-day ; 

'T is good to bless thy Name, Lord ! 
And better is it to obey. 


For Thee, in Zion, praises wait ; 

And yet this graceful Dome of Art 
Thou passest by, to consecrate 

A fairer shrine — the human heart. 

The human heart ! — the sigh for sin 

Is Music to thy perfect ear, 
And Earth has nought thy glance to win 

Like that returning wanderer's tear. 

Then bow thy heavens, Thou ! as we 
Draw nigh, with lowly heart and will, 

And so the House we give to Thee, 

Thy sounding praise shall grandly fill ; — 

That where our dear old Fathers kept 
Their Sabbaths, rise our true desires ; 

And at the Altars where they wept 
We fan anew Religion's fires ; — 

That to our path of tears and night, 

"Where weeds and thorns push by the flowers, 
Come glories from the land of light, 

And sacred sweets and cheerful hours ; — 

That still to Faith's immortal eye 

The Crown is glittering at the goal; — 

The Crown so purchased ! now so nigh ! 
So starred ! — and every star a Soul ! 



Over that child, now sunk in shame, 
While listened Heaven's admiring host- 

In prayer was named the blessed Name 
Of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 

Baptismal waters bathed his brow, 

In sign of covenant, who now 
Is counted as the lost. 

He grew in youth. The father's prayer 
"Went up for him to Mercy's bower ; 

For him, was seen, appealing, there, 
The mother's tear of holy power. 

As parents should, they agonized 

For promises to the Baptized, 
Performed in gracious hour. 

He grew in manhood. Yet no sign 
Saw they, of renovating grace ; 

No token of the life divine, 

In word or action, could they trace. 

The quiet pleasure of the heart, 

Whose choice is still the better part, 
Was not upon his face. 

Self-willed, he left the shielding dome, 
Threw off the yoke, that he might be 

From the restraints and tears of home, 
Its prayers and kind monitions, free. 


And of bis wanderings, the spot 
None knew, few cared, whose chosen lot 
Was hopeless misery. 

He knows not, yet he cares — the sire, 

Whose hair, since then, has changed to gray ; 

She cares — whose frame, the keen desire 
To clasp the absent, wastes away. 

When storms are up, with thunders, wild, 

She fears for her unsheltered child, 
And goes apart to pray. 

Where 's he, for whom they agonized — 

Those parents — in his infancy ? 
Where 's he — the cherished, the Baptized — 

The prodigal, oh ! where is he ? 
On Folly's billows rudely tost, — 
For this world, to appearance, lost, — . 

For Heaven, too, it may be. 

Yet, " train thy child in wisdom's way," 
Saith Wisdom, " and when he is old, 

From that fair path he shall not stray," 
Like one that is to Folly sold. 

That word is truth ! — Old man, bereft 

Of thy first born, by sin, why left 
Thy child the Shepherd's fold? 

Some lapse of thine is with thy grief 

Blended, some error in the link 
That bound his love to thee, is chief 

Of woe that presses now ; yet think ! 


There 's power for thy lost son with God — 
Despair not, No ! though he has trod 
The lava of hell's brink. 

Over that child, now sunk in shame, 

While listened Heaven's admiring host — 

Remember ! once was named the Name 
Of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 

There 's hope for him who wears such sign, 

Though vile — that he, through grace divine, 
Forgiven, shall love most. 


The Soldiers of the Cross, 
Led by the anointed Son, 

Know not of shame or loss, 

Their watchword still is, " On " — 

Onward ! till o'er a rebel world 

Victorious banners are unfurled. 

Whose flag looks o'er the field 

Idolatry hath trod ? 
On waving folds revealed, 

Behold the Word of God; 
Barbaric kingdoms gather round, 
Jehovah ! where Thy Name is found. 

Who next ? — a lamb-like throng, 

The joyous infant train 
Approach, and hail with song 

Their Shepherd's peaceful reign ; 


And he shall lead, with gentle rule, 
His chosen of the Sunday School. 

And sec ! a noble band, 

Whose lifted sheet of Heaven 

Displays from land to land 

The " leaves for healing " given ; 

Where'er its spangled glories burn, 

The nations from the dead return. 

One army of the Prince — 
One note their trumpets tell, 

And theirs the battle, since 
Their Leader vanquished hell. 

To perish, is to win renown, 

To fall — to reach a sparkling crown. 

To arms ! 't were glorious boon 
With these stout hearts to die ; 

To arms ! for victory soon 
Shall be the stirring cry. 

Yet every crown and palm shall meet, 

Where victory dwells, at Jesus' feet 

Written for the Anniversary of a Theological Seminary. 

Come Mind ! and break from empty night, 
And take the wealth of radiance in ; 
Then sow the glorious pearls of light 
In every soil of self and sin. 



Drop splendors o'er the lovely West y 
And melt away her veil of gloom ; 
Flame down where Orient lies unblest, 
And quench the terrors of her tomb. 

His purpose hasten to fulfil ; 
Co-workers with Him for mankind — 
Affection, intellect and will — 
Be one with God, exalted Mind ! 
For oft hath sworn the spirit here 
Her energies forever His ; — 
While dropt upon that oath the tear, 
And looked these Shades, the witnesses. 

Oh Shades ! endeared by thought and prayer, 

To Nature and Religion true, 

What memories turn from aching care, 

And go on pilgrimage to you ! 

What hearts, that sigh the load to cast, 

What spirits, weeping in the strife, 

Ask counsel of your solemn Past, 

And gird anew for future life ! 

9 T is o'er — such moments breathe and die — 
Those seek once more stern Duty's face, 
And these, with kindling soul and eye, 
Rush eager to the untried race. 
Shed down, ye skies ! ethereal dew, 
While angels stoop and smile from bliss 
Whose golden cycles never knew 
The joy, the pain of hours like this. 




Of the Senior Class, at a Theological Seminary. 

The heart to heart, the face to face, 
Answers within this sacred place ; 
The exile has come back, and finds 
" The fellowship of kindred Minds." 

Thanks ! for an Eschol in the waste, 
Whose clusters charm the eye and taste ; 
Thanks — while we seek a world of bliss, 
u Heaven lies about" our path in this. 

Now send us, Lord ! — a willing band — 
Like flames of fire, throughout the land ; 
"With light, where Sin's dark empires lie, 
With life, where deathless millions die. 

By us, let Sharon's roses bless 
The prairie and the wilderness ; 
By us, let Mercy's Cross, unfurled, 
Restore the dying heathen world. 

At home, abroad, in simple love, 
Imparting doctrines from above, 
Still let our glory, boast and pride, 
Be Jesus, and Him Crucified. 

Let intellect, affection, will, 
Approve the words our lips distil ; 



And in our people's lives be shown 
The pure reflection of our own. 

Thanks ! for the lessons taught by Thee — 
Thanks ! that the Truth has made us free- 
Thanks ! for the privilege to teach — 
Thanks ! for the Gospel that we preach. 

" Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me.'* 

No moon or planets ruled the hour 

When Jesus, wrapt in deeper shade, 
And prest by an infernal Power, 

At midnight, in the garden prayed. 
He asked, who never asked in vain, 

— And sighs embalmed the heavy air — 
That hence might pass the Cup of Pain, — 

Yet His was an Unanswered Prayer. 

I go in vision where He lies, 

Forsaken in His utmost need ; 
I see His terrors, hear His cries, 

For whom there 's none to intercede. 
The night dews wet His burning brow, 

The moaning breezes lift His hair, — 
Why crowd these horrors on Him now ? 

And wherefore this Unanswered Prayer? 


It may not pass — that fearful Cup — 

Though mortal flesh and spirit shrink ; 
Insulted Law has filled it up, 

The world is lost, and He must drink. 
No pity for His doom is shown, 

Who comes, unmeasured wrath to bear ; 
The quick cross lightning guards the throne 

And wards off that Unanswered Prayer. 

Oh ! had the Cup but passed from Him, 

And Calvary borne a stainless tree, 
In heaven might range the cherubim, 

But where, my spirit, wouldst thou be ! 
To break the cruel yoke of Sin, 

To raise from rags Creation's heir, 
The rebel to repentance win, 

Must this remain Unanswered Prayer. 

Unanswered — that forever more 

Should contrite cries the boon obtain ; 
That he who knocks at Mercy's door 

In truth, might never knock in vain. 
Then strengthened be thy bold intent, 

In all thy need to Him repair, 
And He will teach thee to present 

What shall not be Unanswered Prayer ! 



The ransomed spirit to her home — 

The clime of cloudless beauty — flies ; 
No more on stormy seas to roam, 

She hails her haven in the skies : 
But cheerless are those heavenly fields, 
The cloudless clime no pleasure yields, 
There is no bliss in bowers above, 
If thou art absent, Holy Love ! 

The cherub near the viewless throne 

Hath smote the harp with trembling hand ; 

And One with incense-fire hath flown 
To touch with flame the angel-band ; 

But tuneless is the quivering string, 

No melody can Gabriel bring, 

Mute are its arches, when above 

The harps of heaven wake not to Love ! 

Earth, sea and sky one language speak, 
In harmony that soothes the soul ; 

'T is heard when scarce the zephyrs wake, 
And when on thunders, thunders roll : 

That voice is heard, and tumults cease, 

It whispers to the bosom peace ; 

Speak, thou Inspirer, from above, 

And cheer our hearts, Celestial Love ! 



We sadly seek the waiting tomb, 

Whose echoes mock our funeral tread, 
And to its silence, damps and gloom, 

With tears, commit the sacred Dead ; 
Guard well your trust, ye narrow walls ! 

And give these ashes sweet repose, 
Till Jesus to the sleeper calls, 

Till rosy tints His Day disclose. 

One prayer for Grace ! the art to learn 

How like the Christian we may die, 
Who journey up whence none return, 

Who press the sod where we must lie ; — 
For Grace ! that led her steps aright, 

And marked her pure, transparent way, 
Whose path was as the shining light, 

That shineth to the perfect day ; — 

For Grace ! that soothed her final hour, 

And winged to God her praising breath, 
And stript from dust and worms their power, 

And triumphed at the gates of Death ; — 
For Grace ! that radiates the tomb ; 

Unsought by sinners, to their loss, 
Who see no Star of Hope illume 

The midnight of the wondrous Cross. 

Resplendent hope ! that smiles on tears, 
Like golden sunlight on the rain ; 


High o'er the grave its bow appears ; 

The Dead in Jesus lives again ! 
We sadly seek the waiting tomb, 

"Whose echoes mock our funeral tread, 
And in His Name who spoiled its gloom, 

To peaceful slumber leave the Dead. 


Written for the Dedication of the Lyceum Hall, South Boston ; 1846. 

Art flew to bless the virgin world ; 

And, since she lit on Shinar's plain, 
Where domes have swelled, or incense curled, 

She 's followed in Religion's train. 

For Wisdom dwelt with God of old, 
Ere flamed the sun or sang the stars ; 

Or He the firmament unrolled, 
Or fixed the sea's eternal bars. 

The Truth that Art and Science preach 
Leads up to God — from God it came ; 

Of God the Laws of Matter teach, 

And Nature 's pregnant with His Name. 

His awful Name, in love and fear, 
We thus from Knowledge truly learn ; 

And thus attempt the worship here, 

That thunders where the Seraphs burn. 


Then gather we around the throne, 
And render what to God belong — 

This House, from cope to corner stone, 
Our supplication and our song ! 


That tossing vessel's silver wake 

Thine eye discerns no more ; 
A storm has gathered on the lake, 

And sullen is its roar. 

Why sinks not the devoted bark 

Beneath that boiling sea ? 
Why o'er those men close not the dark 

Wild waves of Galilee ? 

The Church is there ! — and God, who keeps 

Within his fists the wave, 
Will calm the passions of the deeps, 

His followers to save. 

Still breasts the bark the troublous gale ; 

She 's on the flood of Time ; 
How fearful is the tempest's wail ! 

How high the waters climb ! 

She 's on the Deep ; — though her beset 
Fierce storms that prowl the seas, 

There 's One that never doth forget 
To lull them to a breeze. 


And ever as the winds increase, 

When nearest is despair, 
His voice cries through the thunders, " Peace ! " 

The Church — the Church is there ! 

When mighty are the thralls of sin, 

And tall and strong is pride, 
'T is safe with her to be shut in, 

And o'er the danger ride. 

Amid the sweep of whelming waves, 

Amid the tempest's stir — 
Beneath His wings whose Presence saves, 

May I be found with her ! 

Set to Music by A. P. Heinrich. 

We wander in a thorny maze, 

A vale of doubts and fears ; 
A night illumed with sickly rays, 

A wilderness of tears. 
We wander, bound to empty show, 

The slaves of boasted will ; 
We wander, dupes to hope untrue, 

And love to wander still. 

We wander — while unfading joy 
The heart will ne'er approve, 

The bliss that sparkles to destroy, 
Secures its warmest love ; 


Some syren leads our steps astray, 
And speaks no peace within ; 

We wander in a flowery way, 
We wander, heirs of sin. 

We wander — but though oft we roam, 

Led by allurement strong, 
Yet from our heavenly Father's home 

We would not wander long ; 
Cleanse us, Saviour ! from this stain 

In Mercy's living flood, 
Restore the lost, and bring again 

The wanderer back to God. 


Judea's plains in silence sleep 

Beneath the cloudless midnight sky, 
And o'er their flocks the shepherds keep 

Kind watch, to David's city nigh : 
That royal city ! — nobler Guest 

Is she awhile to entertain, 
Than proudest monarch, whose behest 

It is o'er earthly realms to reign. 
By Him salvation is to mortals given, 
On Earth is shed the peerless noon of Heaven. 

For see ! along the deep blue arch 
A glory breaks ; — and now a throng 

From where the sparkling planets march 
Comes trooping down with shout and song ; 


And o'er those pastures, bathed in light, 
The sacred legions stay their wing, 

While on the wakeful ear of night 

Steals the rich hymn that Seraphs sing. 

And sweetly thus the mellow accents ran, 
" Glory to God, Good Will and Peace to Man! " 

Set to Music by A. P. Heinrich. 

First Cause ! The Good ! Almighty ! Thou ! 

The Dread, Mysterious, Alone ! 
The Rightful King, the AVondrous Now ! 

The Past, the Future, the Unknown ! 

Thou Art ! — O Thou ! the untold years 

Of an Eternity are Thine ; 
Thy Essence, One, Triune, appears — 

All time all space with Thee combine. 

Though terrors shroud, Thou ! thy way, 
Though thunders dwell beneath Thy feet, 

Thy glory beams with kindly ray 
Around the blessed Mercy seat. 

Help me, Thou ! — 'tis Thou alone 
Canst touch my lips with living fire ; 

Though frail, I would approach Thy throne ; 
Though dust, would reach an angel's lyre. 


Yet help me, Sovereign ! and control 
Thy subject's wish and thought to Thee ; 

And 0, accept the contrite soul — 
The offering dear to Deity. 


Weep not, when sad distress is nigh, 
When bliss and transient pleasures fly ; 
When earthly blessings droop and fade, 
When all is wrapt in sorrow's shade. 

Weep not, when death with cruel dart 
Pierces some idol of the heart ; 
When hallowed friendship decks the bier, 
When tender love would claim the tear. 

Weep not, for as the morning cloud 
Doth nature's radiant smile enshroud, 
But scatters soon, — these gloomy woes 
Shall flee, and all be calm repose. 

Weep not, for as the floweret fair 
Is crushed with winter's blighting air, 
Pressed rudely down, it droops its head, 
And all its varied hues are fled — 


With opening spring its bloom revives ; 
Again the beauteous floweret lives ; 
Thus, when life's wintry storms are o'er, 
The friend revives to die no more. 


O thou that plead'st with pitying love, 

How large that love and free, 
When sad and wounded here, we prove 

There 's rest alone in Thee ! 

Poor wanderers, tired, bereft of all, 

To sin and bondage sold, 
We strive, till, freed from Satan's thrall, 

We 're brought to Jesus' fold. 

With fervor at the sinner's heart 

Thou plead'st to enter in, 
And there the kindly balm impart, 

That heals the wounds of sin. 

" Open the door to me, my spouse, 
My love is ever true ; 
My head with drops of midnight flows, 
My locks are filled with dew." 

Who shall not, Lord, with love adore, 

When thus Jehovah pleads ? 
What bosom will deny the door 

When Jesus intercedes ? 


Enter this heart, my Saviour, God ! 

Subdue this stubborn breast ; 
Shed thy renewing grace abroad, 

And be my constant guest. 


Written for the Anniversaries of the American Sunday School Union ; 

The angel ranks that gird the throne 
Of Majesty, stand not alone ; 
To mortals, disenthralled, 't is given 
To join the choral hymn of heaven. 
Hark ! even now a richer strain 
Comes floating o'er the eternal plain ; 
To infant choirs those harps belong, 
And children's voices swell that song. 

Gabriel ne'er touched a sweeter string, — 

His legions listen, as they sing ; 

O, whence those cherub minstrels — say — 

Clad in Immanuel's bright array ? 

In scenes where thoughtless worldlings dwell 

Their lot was cast, whose lyres now swell 

The thrilling melody above ; 

Thine be the praise, God of love ! 



The Sunday School ! Earth has no name 

Worthier to fill the breath of Fame ; 

The untold blessings it hath shed 

Shall be revealed when worlds have fled. 

thou of Bethlehem ! once a child, 

Jesus ! compassionate and mild — 

Approve thy work, be this the sum 

Of all our toil — " Thy Kingdom Come ! " 


If this low vale of strife and tears 

Were never sunned by Mercy's beam, 
Where gladness now, God, appears, 

How dark would thy creation seem ! 
Revealed in splendors was thy name, 

When morn her banners first unfurled ; 
Yet lovelier is the Light that came, 

Shedding redemption o'er a world. 

To this high impulse man has bowed, 

And frigid hearts have learned to love ; 
The fierce are humbled, on the proud 

Sits meekness like a peaceful dove ; 
Now are the mighty of the earth 

Workers with God — now hoary age 
Pants to partake the second birth, 

Now children are his heritage. 

Earth has a theme allied to heaven, 
And joys like those that revel there, 

When to these lisping ones is given 
The artless eloquence of prayer ; 


And these may wake a trembling string, 
While rapture every bosom thrills — 

With hymns as sweet as seraphs sing 
Upon those everlasting hills. 

Our hearts rejoice, our bosoms glow, 

This hour what cheering visions rise ! 
These children, nurtured thus below, 

Shall swell the assemblies of the skies. 
Glorious will be his diadem, 

And songs and ecstasies unknown, 
Who forms for God one beauteous gem, 

To sparkle on the eternal throne. 


God, our God, his power revealing, 

In this latter harvest time, 
Bids his Sun, with wings of healing, 

Rise on each benighted clime : 
See I o'er vale and humbled mountain, 

Rolls his conquering car to-day ; 
See ! his brightness, like a fountain, 

Flooding all the glad highway. 

By the Mission Ships that wander, 

Messengers to every sea, — 
By his servants, toiling yonder, 

Where stern idols claim the knee, — 
Bibles, news of peace declaring 

To the wretch by sin undone, 
Tracts, obedient missives, bearing 

Liberty to thraldom's son : 


By the tender mercies glowing 

Where reigned hatred and misrule, 
And the thousand blessings flowing 

From his chosen Sunday School — 
He is Error's night dispelling, 

Bidding grace in rivers flow 
From Antarctic, to the dwelling 

Of the lowly Esquimaux. 

Wake the harp, ye angels ! ever 

Warble ye melodious choirs ! 
Sweet your minstrelsy, yet never 

With Redemption thrill those wires; 
T is our song, and all your glory 

Starry crowns and hymns above 
Fade, while children lisp the story 

Of a Saviour's dying love. 


Union prevails in heaven, from Him 
Who all its spangled sheet unrolled, 

Down to the flaming cherubim 

That veils his face with wings of gold. 

Union is written on each star 
That walks in music as it shines, 

And the dim worlds that float afar 
Reveal it, traced in living lines. 

In Union have our fathers placed 
The stone that God will not forbid, 

Polished and sure — whereon is based 
The Sunday School's fair pyramid. 



In Union went the cloud of prayer, 
Their embassy, to yonder skies ; 

Faltering, and yet accepted there, 
For God approved the sacrifice. 

O, Thou ! that sendest blessings down, 
The hearing and the answering One — 

Smile on their toil, and give the crown, 
And give the world to Christ thy Son. 

Where warrior feet once pressed the soil, 
And Freedom led her thousands on, 

Hath Knowledge gathered goodly spoil, 
And meek Religion trophies won. 

O'er valleys where repose the brave, 
Her lovely stars hath Peace unfurled ; 

And harvests on the hill-tops wave, 
Where once the cloud of battle curled. 

There bowed the hostile ranks in death, 
There bent our sires the willing knee, 

And from that ground, Lord God ! the breath 
Of glad thanksgiving rose to Thee. 

Thou who didst nerve their dauntless hosts, 
And give them victory on that field, 

From deadlier foemen guard these coasts, 
From sin, God ! the children shield. 


Thou went'st before them, King of kings ! 

And on their camp thy power shone out ; 
0, that the shadow of thy wings, 

Might ever compass these about ! 

Make thou this land a heritage 

Refreshed by kindly sun and shower — 

"Whose youth shall bloom, from age to age, 
Thy right-hand plants of fairest flower. 

Thy smiles they need, their care to crown, 
Who watch the gate or build the dome ; 

Lord ! on our toil send unction down, 
To gather these immortals home. 

And be the pearls of lustre ours, 

The gems that heaven might seek to wear • 
Children arrayed in yonder bowers, 

Led by our tears and watchings there. 


0, God ! this universal frame 

Reveals the splendor of thy Name, 

And on the heavens that thou hast spanned, 

Its characters in beauty stand. 

Of Thee, redeemed ones sweetly sing, 
Where errand angels plume their wing ; 
That mellow music bursts and dies 
Ever along those upper skies. 


Yet nobler than this matchless frame, 

Or heaven of heavens, where dwells thy Name, 

Is He who once this footstool trod, 

The Crucified — the risen God. 

And richer is His word of love, 
Than notes that shake the throne above, 
When He invites his children home, 
Saying, " Forbid them not to come." 


"Jesus saith unto her, Mary. She turned herself, and saith unto him, 
Rabboni ; which is to say, Master. Jesus saith unto her, Touch me not ; for 
I am not yet ascended to my Father ; but go to my brethren, and say unto 
them, I ascend unto my Father and your Father ; and to my God and 
your God." — Johx xx. 16, 17. 

Jerusalem is silent now, 

Her priests and warriors sleep ; 
And dimly on yon vaulted brow, 

The stars their vigils keep ; 
Unheeded is that voiceless gloom — 

That stillness has no dread 
To her that weeping seeks the tomb 

Of the beloved Dead. 

The morn on Zion's lonely hill, 

Has cast no beams abroad ; 
Yet Mary's footstep lingers still — 

She £oes to seek her Lord : 



Why stands she wondering ? — Hands unknown 

Have burst the shroud and pall, 
And rolled away the sealed stone, 

And rent the prison wall. 

Jesus, the Dead, she sees no more, 

And weeps in fond alarm, — 
0, shall she not upon him pour 

Her spices, myrrh and balm ? 
Blessed One ! thy love and faith are great, 

Is not thy triumph near ? 
Yes, He thou seek'st doth on thee wait, 

Mary ! behold Him here. 

I SLEEP, BUT MY HEART WAKETH.— Canticles, v. 2. 

The Church is slumbering. She that once awoke 

And girded on her beautiful array, 

And went forth terribly, is idle ; yea, 
Is sleeping now. She thinks not how she broke 
Her dreamings once, and shook off the stern yoke 

Of Ignorance and Cruelty. The gloom 
Of night is on her — gone is that fair day. 

She is all lovely — is it for the tomb ! 
Will not the few sad watchers for her, pray 

That everlasting sleep be not her doom ? 
That in her silent chamber the strong ray 
Of Life poured down, shall cause her to betake 

Herself to weeping for her once bright bloom ? — 
Church, that art slumbering, — is thy heart awake ? 



When sorrow casts its shade around, 
And pleasure seems our course to shun ; 

When nought but grief and care is found, 
'T is sweet to say, " Thy will be done." 

When sickness lends its pallid hue, 
And every dream of bliss has flown, 

When quickly from the fading view 
Recede the joys that once were known, 

The soul resigned will yet rejoice, 

Though life's last sand has nearly run ; 

With humble faith and trembling voice, 
It still replies, "Thy will be done." 

When called to mourn the early doom 
Of one Affection held most dear, 

While drops upon the closing tomb 
The silent, the expressive tear ; 

Though love its tribute, sad, will pay, 
And earthly streams of solace shun, 

Still, still the gracious soul will say, 
In lowly dust, " Thy will be done." 

Whate'er, Lord, thou hast designed 
To bring my soul to thee, its Trust, 

If mercies or afflictions kind, 

For all thy dealings, Lord, are just — 



Take all! but grant in goodness free, 

The love that ne'er Thy stroke would shun ; 

Support this heart and strengthen me 
To say in faith, "Thy will be done." 


'T is to the East the Hebrew bends, 

When morn unveils its brow ; 
And while the evening rite ascends, 

The East receives his vow. 
Dear to the exile is the soil 

That reared Jehovah's Vine ; 
Dear to the wretched heir of toil 

Thy memory, Palestine ! 

'T is to the East the Hebrew turns, 

The East ! to Hebrews dear, 
When kindling recollection burns, 

When memory claims the tear. 
Land of the Patriarch ! he recalls 

The days of promise, when 
The timbrel rang along thy halls, 

And God communed with men. 

Where Babel murmured Judah's wrongs, 
The banished Hebrew sighs ; 

Where Zion swelled her holy songs, 
His tribute seems to rise ; 


And Hope still wings his thought afar, — 

It tells to those that roam, 
That He who rode the cloudy car 

"Will guide His children home. 


Thou ! in this dark world of ours, 

"Whose voyagers tempt a surging sea, 
Where Guilt flaps wings and Passion lowers, 

Who can direct and save, but Thee ? 
For deeper rolls the Gulf of Sin, 

And higher still its billows climb, 
And few the port in safety win — 

Survivors of the wrecks of Time. 

Yet here Religion sheds the light 

That elevates, refines, reforms ; 
That burns upon the brow of Night, 

A lovely Star, beset with storms ; 
That shines along the rebel's track, 

And floods with radiance Error's feet ; 
That woos the weary wanderer back, 

And lifts Despair to Glory's seat. 

Her presence is continual balm, 

That heals beyond the power of art ; 

Her words the hell of anguish calm, 
Her smile is heaven within the heart. 


Peace at her mandate takes the throne, 
Where Woe and Ruin ruled before ; 

And tumults die at Mercy's tone 

Of " Daughter, go, and sin no more ! " 

That Gospel shall not all obey, 

And thus deliverance bless the world 
Wherever folly takes its way, — 

Wherever clouds of grief are curled ? 
So be it, Lord ! — let work and prayer 

With blessings clothe affliction's rod, 
Till all Thy laborers mingle where 

The pure and perfect see their God. 


He came to drink his bitter cup, 
And men accorded not acclaim ; 

Yet from young lips a shout went up 
That put the frowning priests to shame. 

Beyond the skill to Levites known 

When trump to answering cymbal calls, 

Was that rich swell of touching tone 
That met Him in Moriah's halls. 

Since then in deep forgetfulness 
The harp of Infancy had lain, 

Till Sunday Schools were sent to bless, 
And bid its lispings live again. 


To this dark world 't was gladdening hour, 
When voices that had slumbered long, 

In all the charms of childhood's power 
"Woke up to holiness and song. 

Eight well 't was then, to mark the boy 
Still tending sky-ward, led by Love, 

And as he journeyed, singing, " Thou ! 
My Father, — art my guide above." 

And cheeks, where rioted the curl, 
To see suffused with tears for sin ; 

And holy smiles, by which that girl 
Revealed the quiet peace within ! 

Of gifts from man, was his* the best 
In yonder isle, whose patient prayer 

Brought dews upon that vine to rest, 

And England's thousands sheltered there. 

And friendly to my country's weal 
Was he that bore across the wave 

The tree, whose leaves refresh and heal, 
Whose branches flourish on the grave. 

Shall not to him — the noble one — 

Be grateful tribute ever paid, 
Who gave its blossoms to our sun, 

To cheer us with its balm and shade, — 

* Robert Raikes. 



And led our little ones among 
Its bowers, safe from wanderings, 

As watchful shepherds win their young 
To verdant vales and silvery springs? 

Yes ! and to those whose beaming eyes 
Have lately looked upon the West, 

And said, beneath its pleasant skies 
This plant shall shelter the oppressed, 

And tower above the lordly pines, 

And fling its fragrance round the land, 

From Alleghany's wilds, to where 
Pacific's billows kiss the strand, — 

Be thanks ; — yet rather, Holy Lord ! 

From Thee it comes, to Thee they 're given ; 
And Thou wilt send the searching word 

That saves, restores, and lifts to Heaven. 




" Now I saw in my dream, that the highway which Christian was to go 
was fenced on either side with a wall, and that wall was called Salvation ; 
Isa. xxvi. 1. Up this way, therefore, did burdened Christian run ; but not 
without great difficulty, because of the load on his back. He ran thus till 
he came at a place somewhat ascending; and upon that place stood a Cross, 
and a little below, in the bottom, a sepulchre. So I saw in my dream, that 
just as Christian came up with the Cross, his Burden loosed from off his 
shoulders, and fell from off his back, and began to tumble, and so continued 
to do, till it came to the mouth of the sepulchre, where it fell in, and I saw 
it no more." — Pilgrim's Progress. 

We bear along our toilsome way 

A burden, taken at the birth ; 
How deeply, sadly, none may say, 

It bows the wearer down to earth. 
J T is written, like the prophet's scroll, 

All sighs without, all woes within ; 
It lays upon the fainting soul 

The grievous malison of sin. 

There is no peace around the board, 

Though heaped with meats, and crowned with wine ; 
There is no peace, where heaven hath stored 

For man domestic bliss divine. 
There is no peace in balmy sleep ; 

]Sfo angel there, to bid it seem 
Like Eden, where immortals keep 

Watch o'er the lips of those that dream. 

To madness urged, we leave our home, 
God knows with what disturbed intent 



To crush reflection as we roam, — 
To wander, till His grace is spent ! 

Yet vain to us the painted fields, 
Or valleys smiling with the sheaf; 

The roadside flower no sweetness yields 
To travelers in their guilt and grief. 

Go where we may, it goes with us ; 

At home, abroad, or well, or ill ; 
In mirth, in joy, the constant curse 

Is woven with existence still. 
It shames us in the open mart ; 

It dyes our cheek in secret hour ; 
It sits, a vulture, on the heart, 

And tortures with unsparing power. 

Across the desert lies the way 

To that high place of fearful name ; 
"We choose it, and, regardless stray, 

To Sinai's awful mount of flame. 
The tenfold trumpet, waxing loud 

And louder, warns the sinner thence ; 
How may he shun — the lost, the proud — 

The Law that slays for one offence ! 

Shall we, with Christian, take the path, 

That points, as worldlings deem, to loss, 
But, leading from impending wrath, 

That brings the Pilgrim to the Cross ? 
Oh, we may travel folly's road, 

Bowed with our burden to despair ; 
Yet, never, never drop the load, 

Till, taught by grace, we leave it there ! 


How many painful steps he took ! 

What heavy groanings rent his breast ! 
Till, casting on that sight a look, 

At once he found relief and rest. 
And thus \ is ever with the heart 

That turns aside to solace, vain ; 
It cannot with its anguish part ; 

The guilt and burden must remain. 

O God ! when finding out the cheat 

Of this delusive world below, 
We turn away our weary feet, 

And to the Cross with weeping go, — 
How blest to feel, while gazing, all 

That weighed our spirit down before, 
Loosed by thy love, forever fall 

Where Mercy ne'er shall see it more! 


" It was his custom to visit in person the families of the poor, and to per- 
suade the parents to feel interested in the well-being of their children ; while 
at the same time he persuaded the children to come to the Sunday school." 

And who is he that 's seeking, 

With look and language mild, 
To heal the heart that 's breaking, 

And save the vagrant child ? 
He searches lane and alley, — 

The mean and dark abode, — 
From Satan's hosts to rally 

The conscripts due to God. 


With words of kindly greeting, 

Warm from an honest heart, 
He *s Ignorance intreating 

In Wisdom to have part. 
With charity unfailing, 

He patiently doth take 
Rebuke and sinful railing, 

For Christ the Shepherd's sake. 

He wins from vicious mothers 

The children of neglect, 
The sisters and the brothers 

From households sadly wrecked. 
And these, the Truth impressing 

Beneath his gentle rule, 
Have called on him a blessing, 

Who formed the Sunday school. 

I 'd rather my life's story 

Should have such episode, 
Than all the gorgeous glory 

Napoleon's history showed. 
For when no more war's banner 

With shouting is unfurled, 
These children's sweet hosanna 

May shake the upper world. 



But shall they be my God ? or shall I have 

Of them so foul and impious a thought, 
To think that from the curse they can me save ? 

Bread, wine, nor water, me no ransom brought, 

John BunyaTt, 

I bring unto the Font, with holy feeling, 

My blossom, sweet, and yet defiled ; 
And crave the sign, that Love is here revealing, 

To seal, for aye, my child. 
Yet cannot deem these pure innocuous waters 

Sprinkled on the appealing face — 
Can ever give to Adam's sons or daughters 

Restoring life and grace. 

I do approach with awe and sacred pleasure 

The Feast of origin divine — 
And here, though poor, do take all glorious treasure, 

Handling the bread and wine. 
Yet cannot think the Eucharist is food 

To satisfy the starving mind 
That feeds on sin. Here, if my sin intrude, 

My Lord I may not find. 



What a spiritual expression 
Death doth ever wear ! 
'T is as if its own impression 

Heaven writeth there- 
Something of eternity 
In that fixed face you see. 

Or, as if the soaring spirit, 
Leaving dust alone — 

Ere she mounted, lingering, gave it 
Image of her own ; 

Setting solemn seal on earth, 

Known again at glorious birth. 

Listen, mother ! — by this token 
Joy shall follow pain ; 

Ties shall be renewed, now broken, 
She shall live again ! 

Then thy beauteous babe will shine 

With a countenance divine ! 





A Turk, at Jerusalem, once said to Mr. Wolff, the missionary, u Why- 
do you come to "us ? " The missionary replied, u To bring you peace." 
" Peace ! " replied the Turk, leading Mr. Wolff to a window, and pointing 
him to Calvary, " there, upon the very spot where your Lord poured out 
his blood, the Mohammedan is obliged to interfere, to prevent Christians 
from shedding the blood of each other."" 

The angels* song, that happy night 

When spirits stooped to mortal ken, 
Warbled from lips and lyres of light, 

Was, Peace on earth, Good Will to men. 

In Peace, the sages came, and paid 
Their offering of the gold and myrrh ; 

And why such bliss on Mary laid ? — 
She felt that Peace had come to her. 

Peace was the theme, when precepts dropt 

From Jesus' lips, like his own dew ; 
Who oped their eyes ? Who ears unstopt ? 

His name was Peace — 't was all they knew. 

The word that lingered on his tongue, 

When sighs and suffering soon should cease, 

And Jesse's Root be rudely flung 
As a vile weed away, was Peace. 

*T was " Peace," that sweetly soothed the fear 
Of those who mourned their Master slain ; 

With Peace their weapon, far and near, 
They won the world to Him again. 


Peace is inscribed on that broad scroll 
The angel bears whom Saint John saw ; 
" Joy to all realms where pines a soul, 
And to the isles, Jehovah's law I " 

And yet, oh, God ! the Christian's wrath, 
Through all her seas, through all her zones, 

Has in Earth's bosom hewed a path 

That 's whitened with her children's bones. 

In thy Son's name the sword drinks blood ; 

In thy Son's name, since first his Star 
Spoke Peace, has surged the angry flood 

Of cruel and destructive War. 

Drop, Christendom ! thy boasted name, 
And let the humble take it — those 

Who fear, in spite of taunt and shame, 
To count their Christian fellows foes. 


Sung at the Dedication of the Second Presbyterian Chnrch, 
Cincinnati; 1S30. 

Heart and hymn, Thy sons and daughters 

Give to Thee, Incarnate Word ! 
Voices, as of many waters, 

Answer, " Holy, Holy, Lord ! " 
From thy sanctuary bending, 

Of whose bliss the Sun thou art, — 
Listen to the song ascending, 

Look upon the humble heart. 



What, though to thy Name, a dwelling 

Mortals build, whence prayer shall rise ■ 
Temples, all their art excelling, 

Are thy earth and painted skies ; 
Crowns and harps are thine for ever, 

Lord of Uncreated Day ! 
Yet from our low praises, never 

Wilt thou turn thine ear away. 

Swelling domes, unto thy glory 

Reared, we scarcely deem begun, 
Till upon each stone, the story 

Is inscribed, of trophies won. 
Here, oh Dove ! thyself revealing, 

Let the tear be shed for sin ; 
O'er us spread thy wing of healing, 

Be its shadow felt within. 

Name ! in which we raise our banner, 

Lay the stone and build the wall ; 
Name ! that wakes the glad hosanna, 

Name ! by which this house we call ; 
Opened are the doors of heaven, 

Lifted are the gates of God — 
Enter ! — souls to Thee are given, 

Thou that hast the wine-press trod. 



Beautiful tree of the towering stem ! 
Wearing thy flowers like a diadem — 
Whose leafy garlands, always green, 
Always fair and flowing are seen ; 
Whose scarlet fruit, like coral bright, 
To the longing traveller yields delight ; 
Noblest thou of the forest throng ! 
To thee I give a simple song. 
I never saw thee, princely plant, 
In Syria's vales, nor in thy haunt — 
" The city of palm trees," Jericho, 
Nor where the Jordan's currents flow, 
Nor where the mighty Lebanon sees, 
In pride, his aged cedar trees ; 
Nor where is found the clustering vine, 
Or tempting olive of Palestine ; 
Nor in the distant desert, where 
Palmyra's solemn ruins are ; — 
Yet I have loved thee, since a boy, 
It was at home my glad employ 
To read, beneath my father's eye, 
In Holy Writ ; — and gladly I 
Did in the blessed Sabbath's calm, 
Read and talk of the stately palm ; 
That the Good shall be like the flourishing tree, 
Planted by the gushing river ; 
That yields in his season his fruit, and he, 
The evergeen, shall never wither. 



The pilgrim eagerly looks for thee, 
When faint and almost spent with thirst; 
He knows where thou art, guiding tree, 
The cool deep waters freely burst. 
thus may I the Saviour seek, 
"When in this desert faint and weak, 
Assured that He my steps will show 
And lead where streams forever flow. 

1 Tim. 5 : 21. 

0, Angels ! nearest to the King, 

Elected from the rest — 
Why, o'er those winged and flaming troops, 

Are ye accounted blest ? 

Is 't with Jehovah, Father, Son, 

Jehovah, Holy Ghost, 
Ye marshal up the glittering ranks, 

Co-leaders of the host? 

Is ? t when the burning worlds roll by, 

And ancient Time has fled, 
That ye, auxiliary to Christ, 

Shall judge the quick and dead ? 

Whate'er your high behest may be, 

Your starry eyes, I know, 
Look down from golden heights, to bless 

The humble heart below. 



Your awful beauty shines around, 

Rebuking gross desire ; 
Your innocence consumes my sin 

With salutary fire. 

Ye are apostles unto me ; 

Your Presence is a call, 
In thought, and word, and deed, to keep 

The charge of holy Paul! 


And the Lord turned and looked upon Peter. — Luke xxii: 61. 

That Look ! — when eye met eye — what power 

Was in that wondrous Look, 
Which he, deemed of the Twelve a tower, 

Unshaken, might not brook ? 

Rolled forth the angry thunders then, 

To speak his blighting shame ? 
Or met that chief of fickle men 

The Godhead's glance of flame — 

Revealing, where the mocked One stood — 

The Scorned in priestly hall — 
That He, about to bear the wood, 

And die, was Sire of All ? 

No! such was not His gracious will, 

His nature was not so ; 
Yea, that He, patient, pitieth still, 

My soul has cause to know ! 

— 9 


Round that proud palace — dark as hell, 
With hell's completed crime — 

No forked and fiery vengeance fell ; 
'T was not the Father's time. 

No ! nor on that Denier, who 

For life, risked Life above ; 
Yet his forgiving Lord he knew 

In that full glance of Love ! 


I saw a man who had sojourned where 
The Saviour once did tabernacle. He 
Familiar was with Bethlehem, Nazareth ; knew 
The very site of Jacob's well ; had talked 
Where Jesus talked, — was intimate with all 
The scenes of Gospel story ; yea, had dwelt 
Hard by the Garden ; and his daily course 
Had taken o'er the soil of Calvary ; 
And yet he gaily spoke of these ; and smiled, 
And smoothed his chin, and twisted in his hair 
His dainty fingers, as with unconcern 
He took upon his lips those sacred names. 
And then I thought that such an one in Heaven 
Would ask the Crucified to show His scars, 
And coldly gaze, while angels blush and shrink ; - 
And, Gallio like, care not for all these things. 



I knew thee once where sweeps Ohio's tide ; 

An exile thou from thy New England home ; 
Yet not in western solitudes to hide, 

Nor to acquire rich knowledge, didst thou roam. 
Knowledge thou hadst, and taste, and thou couldst please 
With various lore ; thou didst not stray for these. 

But to disperse thy wealth of learning, so 

Thy fellow-men should profit by it well ; 
That Lowliness the glorious Cross might know ; 

That Pomp might turn aside and with Religion dwell. 
This was thy aim, if thee I read aright, 
Thou soul of modesty, and love, and light ! 

Yes, and to show in action, word, and look, — 
The which the world most eagerly doth scan — 

That all was modeled from the sacred Book 
Whose pages pattern out the Christian man ; 

Who only knows, in spite of Learning's pride, 

The alphabet divine of Christ the Crucified. 

And therefore 't is no wonder unto me, 

That near thy dying couch the Saviour stood ; 

And angels' wings shook round thee fragrancy, 
The while they bore thee over Jordan's flood. 

Thus thy departure, thus the righteous die 

Who live the righteous ; — Jesus ! thus may I. 



For conscience bold, our sires of old, — 

A heaven-devoted flock, 
Tempting the waves, — by Him who saves, 

Were led to Plymouth Kock. 

Stern Winter's sway held shore and bay, 
What time they pitched their tent ; 

And ere Spring's bloom, unto the tomb 
Their flower of manhood went. 

Want hedged their path ; the red man's wrath, 

And sickness, too, they met, 
And griefs ; yet, God ! the way they trod, 

Thy mercy did beset. 

Two hundred years ! — those precious tears 

And watchings, want and pain, 
Hid in that field, now freely yield 

A thousand fold again. 

0, Sire of Grace ! we of their race, 
To whom their deeds are known, — 

Our hopes fulfilled, this church do build 
On Jesus Christ alone. 

Thy Help our stay, be ours the way 

Those ancient fathers trod ; 
Our zeal, like theirs, our toils and prayers, 

And ours the Pilgrim's God ! 



Darkly o'er thee, Palestine ! 

Hangs the dreadful veil of night ; 
Land of Shinar ! grief is thine, 

Quenched the glory of thy light. 
Where is now the promise given 

To thy sires of ancient day ? 
Where is now the lamp of heaven, 

To direct the wanderer's way ? 

Ye who, favored, saw Him, tell 

Of his mien, beyond compare ; 
Ye who marked Him when he fell, 

Say, was not the the Godhead there ? 
Yet he sunk beneath the rod — 

Anguish sat upon his brow — 
Men have triumphed in his blood, 

And the marble holds Him now. 

Wherefore then the golden beam 

Springing up the eastern sky, 
Bright, yet soft as Morning's dream, 

When Night's empire passes by ? 
Wherefore then the choral hymn 

Floating on the wavy air — 
Why is rent the marble tomb ? — 

Jesus sleeps no longer there ! 

Takes He now immortal power — 
Every foe beneath Him lies ; 


He has risen ! — glorious hour ! 

We who sleep in Him shall rise. 
Welcome Death ! each sorrow closing, 

Now thy features smiles do wear ; 
Welcome Grave ! to flesh reposing, 

Jesus is the victor there. 


Almighty Thou ! although thy throne 

Is arched above revolving spheres, 
Though attributes are Thine alone 

In number, countless as Thy years, — 
Though 'neath Thy feet is darkness spread, 

There the hushed thunders, trembling, lie — 
Though, in thy Presence, fraught with dread, 

The unveiled worshipper may die, 

Yet we, O God ! a feeble band, 

In Jesus may acceptance claim ; 
Yet we, the creatures of thy hand, 

May come, and breathe a Father's Name. 
Lord of Assemblies ! O inspire 

Our hearts with eloquence of prayer ; 
From yonder temple waft the fire 

That glows upon thine altar there. 

While we approach the Mercy Seat, 
Once hidden, but in Christ restored — 

And tread, with unpresuming feet, 
The place of Holiest to the Lord, — 


Hear Thou in heaven, and oh impart 
Some ray that burns and cheers above, 

The glory, telling where Thou art, 
Dread Uncreate ! is Light and Love. 

Thou art Almighty, — we are dust, — 

Thou art All-seeing, — finite we, 
In judgment erring, — Thou art just, 

Fountain of Strength ! we draw from thee. 
Shine on our worship, — Rise, thou Star 

Of David, chase the night away ! 
Bid Faith's strong vision look afar 

To Thee, the Light, the Truth, the Way! 


Go, minister of God, 
To lands where soar pagodas in their pride, 

The soil that pagan footstep long has trod, 
And tell the story of a Saviour crucified. 

Go to the clime of night, 
Where, sullen, broods the darkness that is felt ; 
And point those millions to the star of Light, 
That burned and trembled once, above where Magi knelt. 

Go, and amid the din 
Of idol bells and heaving multitudes, 

Teach erring men the anthem to begin, 
That, whispered below, swells out in blest abodes. 


Go — in this mortal strife 
The Crucified, your Captain, leads before ; 

Look ever to Him, — they are crowns of life 
He gives ; win thou for Christ the Asiatic shore. 

Go ! and in life's glad morn, 
If wills the Master here, no more we meet — 

With China's millions by his grace new born, 
He '11 gather thee and us unto His feet. 


No hallowed oils, no grains I need, 
No rags of saints, no purging fire. 

Sir Henry Wbtton, 1568. 

Lord ! at thy throne, a poor Israelite, kneeling, 

In lowliness, comes with his prayer to thee now ; 
"With confidence, yet in emotion, revealing 

The reverence that awes, as he ventures to bow. 
Yet how shall he come ? for the cherubim's token 

Is faded that waved once o'er Mercy's bright seat ; 
By Urim and Thummim thy will is not spoken, 

And darkness is where burned Shechinah ! thy feet. 
No longer may he, on Samaria's mountain, 

Bow down, nor to Zion of David repair ; 
Siloa flows sweetly, yet songs by that fountain 

Ascend not to thee, nor from Olivet prayer. 
0, Thou ! that didst bring out thy chosen in power 

From Pharaoh, we know that thou humbledst his pride, 
Yet we, the delivered, are whelmed at this hour 

As deep as his horsemen that sunk in the tide. 



Forgive, thou Just One ! — our fathers in folly, 

Forsaking thy service, to idols did turn, 
And under the green tree, the myrtle and holly, 

On high places incense to Baal did burn ; * 
And thou didst reject them, and judgment succeeding 

To judgment, gave sign of the wrath of the Lord, — 
Their valiant men routed, their heritage bleeding, | 

Thou wentest no longer with buckler and sword. 
And now we are peeled, and a jest to the nations, 

And scattered among them as leaves that are sere ; 
With ashes are mingled our bitter oblations, 

The cup of our trembling is dashed with a tear. 
Yet think upon Abraham ! — the oath that unto him 

Thou swear'st by Thy Greatness, none other so high, — 
And think on the seed that by faith thou didst show him, 

As countless as stars on the Syrian sky. J 
That oath is unbroken ! that covenant never 

Could perish, though Thee have thy people forgot ; 
That seed is uncounted — by kingdoms wherever 

Did families cluster, and Israel not ? 
Thy " Zion," though homeless and humbled, " is written," 

Thou graciously saidst, " in remembrance above ; " 
Her walls are before Thee, § and now that she 's smitten, 

She turns to her Maker, and sues for His love. 

* We acknowledge, Lord, our wickedness, and the iniquity of our 
fathers. — Jer. xiv. 20. 

f I have forsaken my house, I have left my heritage — they have made 
it desolate. — Jer. xii. 7, 11. 

% And he brought him forth abroad, and said, Look now toward heaven, 
and tell the stars, if thou art able to number them ; and he said unto him, 
So shall thy seed be. — Gen. xv. 5. 

§ Behold I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands ; thy walls are 
continually before me. — ha. xlix. 16. 


Then, Lord, of her thousands, if here is one trusting 

In Thee, that would come in contrition alone, 
Wilt thou not accept him, and heal the heart bursting 

"With grief for its guilt, by a glance from the throne ! 
I search for the Prince of mysterious story, — 

I gaze on the garden, the manger, and tree, — 
The tomb of his victory — I find there his glory, 

But Him in the mercy that looks upon me. 


If, in that world of spotless light, 

Where good men dwell for ever, 
Those, with whom here I took delight, 

Shall greet my warm love never — 
Its joys, which eye has seen not, ear 

Heard not, will be most precious ; 
Yet loving those, the true loved here, 

Would make heaven more delicious. 

If, treading yonder crystal street, 

Thoughts, linked with time, come o'er me, 
And forms of earth I longed to greet 

Should pass unknown before me ; 
My partner, with no glance of love — 

My meek-eyed child, a stranger — 
Should I not turn from heaven above, 

A sad and silent ranger ? 



Thou, who didst give to Love's sweet star, 

Below, its joyous lustre, 
Canst bid its glories shine afar 

Where best affections cluster ; 
And 1 11 believe the bliss whose birth 

Thou spakest so fair and vernal, 
Undimmed, unfaded, here on earth, 

Like Thee, will be eternal. 


"Wait thou on Jehovah ! instructively cries 

The Psalmist of Israel to thee — 
A guide to thy steps, and a light to thine eyes, 

In darkness and doubt he will be. 

Wait thou on Jehovah in poverty's hour — 

Before him confidingly stand 
In meekness, and thee will the arm of his power 

Exalt, to inherit the land. 

Wait thou on Jehovah, when wealth, like a flood, 

Rolls in, and still consecrate this, 
In time of thy stewardship, wisely, to God, 

Lest thou his inheritance miss. 

Wait thou upon Him in importunate prayer, 

And he will thy sacrifice own — 
If with it 't is humbly and truly thy care 

That labor is joined at the throne. 



For poor is oblation where charity 's not, — 

Such formally waiting in vain 
"Will be found, at the last, on thy garment, a spot — 

What ocean may wash out the stain ? 

In trials and Wessings that meet thee, do thou, 

While glad, or submissively still, 
Rejoice in his love, to his providence bow, 

And work, as thou wait est His will. 

And thou, whose delight it may be, for thy Lord, 
In his Sunday school still to be spent — 

While scattering there the good seed of the Word, 
Scan truly thy wish and intent. 

Thou teachest another — has Wisdom thee taught 

Thy folly and weakness to see? 
And hast thou, in weeping and watchfulness, brought 

Thy charge where the sinner should be ? 

In prayer dost thou wait, where, in secret, each face 

Of thy class rises up to thy love — 
And toil for these dear ones, believing that grace 

Will guide them to safety above ? 

Wait in all on Jehovah ! not passively wait ; 

With zeal be thou girded and shod — 
Sitting down, rising up, in the house, in the gate, 

Oh, work, as thou tvaitest on God ! 

His universe serves him ; the shining ones touch 
Their harps, as they wait his behest — 

Obeyers, while waiting ; we, too, may be such, 
Who more than the angels are blest. 



Why, on darkness of the night, 
Streanieth uncreated light ? 
Why, above the Eastern plains, 
Tremble those melodious strains? 
Who are those of perfect mould, 
Wearing crowns and harps of gold ? 
Why is stayed each eager wing ? 
What 's the glorious song they sing ? 
This is light from yonder throne, 
These are strains from heaven alone, 
These the errand cherubim, 
These the praising seraphim, 
And their song is of the plan 
So just to God, so safe to man, 
And of Him, who diadem 
Leaving, comes to Bethlehem, 
Mortals rescuing, sin-beguiled, 
"Mighty God! mysterious Child!" 
Hark ! in symphony they play, 
Golden strings repeat the lay ; 
An injured God, a frowning throne, 
Mercy to the rebel shown ! 
Sweetly, each immortal chord 
Tells of the descended Lord, — 
The bleeding Lamb an offering made, 
Earth restored, the pardon paid. 
Praise Him ! — when celestial wires 
Waken, where are earthly choirs ? 


Praise Him ! — when the hosts above 
Laud Him, where is mortal love ? 
Praise Him ! praise Him ! who hath given 
Peace on earth, and joy in heaven. 


Oh ! what a Voice comes in the still y hush 

Of solemn twilight, when the world's loud rush 

Is silenced! — and it speaketh sadly, then, 

Of hours misspent, of folly wrought by men. 

That Voice is heard amid the busy din 

Of life. In toil and pleasure, deeds of sin 

Long since forgotten, as accusers, come 

Up to remembrance ; awful is their sum ! 

That Voice ! — where comes it not ? — take wings, 

take wings, 
And still it follows with its tale of things 
Thou lovest not to dwell on, — in thick night, 
Day. distance, yea, even now, unto thy flight 
To dreary solitude and hurried throng, — 
Telling that God is rigid, and thou art wrong. 



Near Philadelphia. 

When my spirit leaves the clay, 
And the holy priest doth say 
Over Hie, in humble trust, 
" Earth to earth, and dust to dust," 
And this mortal — tribute paid — 
In its narrow cell is laid, 
Till it gladly, quitting tombs, 
Immortality assumes, — 
Be that refuge of the weary 
In this lovely cemetery, 
Or in scenes inviting one 
To repose, his labor done, 
As these kindly do invite 
Me to tarry death's long night. 
Let me take my slumber, then, 
Far from haunts of busy men, 
In a spot as fair as this, 
Where the playful breezes kiss 
Early blossoms, fragrant flowers. 
Let me, in such quiet bowers, 
Find at last my resting place. 
Flesh to grave, and soul to grace ! 
'Mid such peaceful Sabbath reigning, 
'Mid such melancholy plaining 
Of sweet birds above my head, 
Would I tarry when I 'm dead, — 


"Would I take my solemn ease, 
Till old Time his centuries 
Endeth. Let me in such ground, 
When the world breaks up, be found. 
Here I'd rather choose to lie 
Than in crowded charnels ; I 
Shudder at the thought of fingers 
Rudely handling that which lingers 
Of the mouldering form, and tossing 
Relics round, with jest and scoffing, 
As if they were vilest earth, — 
Making of corruption mirth. 
Far from violated tombs, 
Lay me where the laurel blooms, — 
Where the murmuring river flows 
With the cadence of repose. 

Like a hermit would I steal 
Hither, where the vexing wheel 
Of the toiler is not heard, — 
Where the carol of the bird 
Mingles with the zephyrs' talk, — 
Where, at noon, the shady walk 
Beckons pilgrims, — where is found 
Room for lodgers of the ground ; — 
Where no sullen city wall 
Casts its shadows, like a pall, — 
Where no sacrilegious stir 
Mocketh at the slumberer, — 
Where the friend may sigh alone 
Over the recording stone, 
And lament of love be given 
Only unto pitying Heaven. 


In these groves where Wisdom museth, 

In this spot Religion chooseth, 

Let me my appointed time 

Wait, till stars no longer chime, — 

Till the music of the spheres 

Stops forever, and the ears 

Of the breakers from the tomb 

Hear the trumpet's call to doom. 


It may be, from outbreaking sin 

Thy mercy hath me kept ; 
I fear me lest o'er faults, within, 

My spirit long hath slept. 
Faults known to Thee — forgot by me ; 

All unconfessed, unwept. 

How far I am from outward act 

Of grievous error free, 
Unstained by damning vice, — the fact 

My fellow men may see; 
Not these, not these ; — what I deplore 

Is scanned alone by Thee. 

And such — not all their wild extent 

Can I of surety know, 
How with my beating heart are blent 

The pulses of the foe; 
Who courses in my purple flood, 

And taints it in its flow. 



Could I escape Thought's dreadful power, 

Nor creep to death its slave, 
I 'd purchase one such angel-hour 

TTith life, and hail the grave ; 
Or, doomed to longer pilgrimage, 

Life's many woes would brave. 

Could in these bitter waters be 
Some branch of healing cast, 

I 'd murmur not, though yet by me 
A desert 's to be past 

Of care and toil — not dreary sin — 
To Canaan's land at last. 

J T is not of sickness I complain, 
Though this hath made me moan ; 

Bereavement wakes no angry strain, 
Though this, God, I 've known ! 

I 'd bear these chiders, as I 've borne, 
For these are all thine own. 

'T is not that thou hast scourged away 

My early, pleasant schemes, 
And on my plans of riper day 

Hast written, u empty dreams ; " 
And taught me earth's enchantment is 

Far, far from what it seems. 

'T is not that to hope's flower of pride, 

Which grew within my door, 
A worm was sent ; the floweret died — 

And joyful hope is o'er. 
He whom I love is shipwrecked, tossed 

On seas without a shore. 


'T is not that, daily, I may see 

How silent grief drinks up 
Her life, who is my life to me, 

Who took with me that cup, 
And drained it to its dregs of pain ; — 

0,few such horrors sup ! 

I, foolish wanderer, truly know 

That these are well for me ; 
These are but blessed guides to show 

The path that leads to Thee — 
Yea, in my greatest grief I count 

My greatest joy to see. 

But 't is vain Thoughts that me perplex ; 

And sinful Thoughts, that rise 
Like clouds of troops, all armed, to vex 

My journey to the skies. 
O, how they muster, when my soul 

On heaven would fix her eyes ! 

And when I come to Thee in prayer, 
Hell knows the favored hour ; 

Lo, all its legion Thoughts are there, 
Impatient to devour ! 

Yea, weeping at my Saviour's Cross, 
I feel their cruel power. 

My God ! I cry to Thee in pain ; 

Thou art my hope at last ; 
Free me from the accursed chain, 

So strongly round me cast, — 
And Thee I '11 praise along my way, 

And when my journey 's past. 


Yet, " if to suit some wise design," 

I must be longer tried ; 
And this stern trouble must be mine, 

Perhaps to humble pride — 
Help ! Thou, who, in Gethsemane, 

Temptation, sore, defied. 


Long hath the Crescent's glittering sign 

On Salem's temple shone ; 
Long hath Jehovah's awful shrine 

Stood desolate and lone. 

The tents of Midian tribes unblest 
On Shinar's plains are spread ; 

And wandering feet have rudely prest 
The soil where Jesus bled. 

But Shiloh comes to bless the land, 

And Israel's tribes restore ; 
Lo ! Edom, with Assyria's band, 

On Calvary shall adore. 

Fair Lebanon shall hear his voice, 
And lands where Jordan flows, 

With Sharon's desert shall rejoice, 
And blossom as the rose. 


No more shall Zion's daughter mourn, 

Or captive Judah sigh ; 
Jehovah shall her walls adorn, 

And bring his ransomed nigh. 


Though pouting out with youth and health, 
'T would blast their rich and tempting red ; 

I cannot join such living wealth 

Of sweets with what is sour and dead. 

An oath on Woman's lips ! — let man 
Touch rudely, strings that jar above, — 

She snaps the cords and breaks the plan 
Of Heaven, by other word than Love. 

An oath on Woman's lips ! — in vain 
Her eyes are starry worlds of light ; 

Her voice as when soft lyres complain, 
Her skin of the celestial white ; 

'T is lost to me. She only seems 

The twofold wonder fables tell, 
That charm and fright the sleeper's dreams — 

An angel and a fiend of hell. 



"And Moses said unto the people, ' Fear ye not ; stand still, and see the 
salvation of the Lord, -which he •will show you to-day.'" — Exodus, 
xiv. 13. 

Stand ye, on whom, in duty's path, 

Innumerous open dangers press ; 
On whom awaits some secret scath, 

Along the howling wilderness ; 
Stand still, and trust, and so shall ye 
The fiery Cloud and Pillar see. 

Stand ye, on whose devoted head 

Stern poverty in tempest lowers ; 
Or chained to wasting sickness' bed, 

Or counting melancholy hours, 
Or shedding tears on love's lone grave, — 
Stand, and behold an Arm to save. 

Stand ye, between whose soul and Heaven 

Is interposed the veil of fear, 
That shuts out all the glory given 

From God, to bless his children here. 
0, wherefore did ye doubt his grace ? 
Look up and see your Father's face. 

Stand ye, of every name, who wear 
The colors of our common King — 

His soldiers, hemmed, and faint, prepare 
To see Him blest deliverance bring. 

Up ! through this Red Sea take your way, 

And see Salvation's work to-day. 


And stand, my spirit I — none like thee, 
Methinks, so apt to fear and fall ; 

Rest on His mercy, who can free 
And ransom from the sinner's thrall. 

Who bids His goodness pass before 

The heart that pants to love him more. 

Yet one more wilderness thou 'It pass, 
And Mercy will conduct thee through, 

Till gladly on the Sea of Glass 

Thou 'It stand, and serve, and worship, too. 

Till then, the victory expect, 

That crowns the host of God's Elect. 


When the great captains and the mighty men 

Wail at the Judgement, and, to shun the ken 

Of searching Justice, call on rocks aloud — 

Tea, when earth's conquerors, the tall and proud, 

Shrink from His coming, and, as mountains quake, 

Their prayer to them in agony do make, — 

Whence is the terror ? Wherefore quail these tremblers ? 

Whose scorching glances trouble the dissemblers ? 

Is it for Him who spake on Sinai ? — Fear 

The guilty men, those guarding lightnings here ? 

No ! — thought dwells not upon Jehovah now ; 

They heed not kindlings of the Father's brow ; 

Too well they know, the anger that shall damn 

To outer darkness — cometh from the Lamb! 



"The Widow's Mite!" — who ever saw — 
Since Jesus saw — that wondrous sight, 
Fulfilling all the royal law 
To God and Man, " The Widow's Mite?' ; 

And who for fame, or who for love 

To body, intellect, or soul, 
To man below, or God above, 

Has yielded, since that hour, the whole ? 

Not one ! not one ! — the Jewish age 

Has only such example shown ; 
It stands, a marvel, on the page 

Of eighteen hundred years, alone. 

" She, of her penury, gave her all," 

And shrank, in silence, from the crowd ; 
Thou canst thy gifts by hundreds call, 
And set thy name among the proud. 

Yet give ! — but on thy deed do not — 
So often done — a falsehood write ; 

Nor to foul avarice add the blot 

Of naming it, " The Widow's Mite." 

Nor deem the blazoned gift of gold, 
Or paltry alms that fears the light, 

For " blest memorial " will be told, 
Or thought of, as " The Widow's Mite ! " 




Who cares for Jack ? — Not one, not one ; 

Each has his selfish care, — 
But for the friendless Sailor, none 

Kind word or thought can spare. 
Who cares that still alone is his 

The ocean's rugged way ; 
By night unquiet rest, and toil 

And bitterness by day ! 

Who cares for Jack ? — he has no friend 

To soothe his weary woe ; 
If tears are his, no heart is his 

On which those tears may flow. 
Who cares when pallid sickness bends 

On him its angry frown, 
Or when from the ship's plank he sinks 

A thousand fathoms down ? 

Who cares for Jack, — his voyage done ? — 

The eager landlord cares ; 
And to the utmost farthing strips 

The victim of his snares ; 
Yes, there are spoils along the deeps, 

And ocean has its shoals, — 
But the dry land has more than these — 

The hopeless wreck of souls. 

Hallo ! hallo ! the flag is up, 

'T is nailed to yonder mast ! 
Thank God ! the Sailor's battered hulk 

Is near The Bethel cast. 



Hallo ! hallo ! a friendly port, 

From cruel landsharks free ; 
Now, comrade, bear a hand, and look ! 

The Sailor's Home for thee. 

Here thou wilt meet with noble hearts, 

A willing mess wilt share, 
And none to mock thy true attempt 

To seek thy God in prayer. 
Who cares for Jack ! The proud may not — 

Yet when seas pass away 
He, with a starry crown, may shine 

More bright and pure than they. 



O, tell me, while the blessed ones 

Their wings in worship fold, 
Discoursing words of melody 

To instruments of gold — 
While thousand thousands pass the praise, 

Where kneeling ranks are seen, 
And voices, as the talk of seas, 

Are heard the songs between — 
Why should the Saviour turn aside 

From notes that ravish so, 
And hearken, while inferior chords 

Sound up from earth below ? 



Once, to the Lord, in Palestine, 

Was sung an infant hymn, 
When children of Jerusalem 

Abashed the Sanhedrim, 
And owned the lowly Teacher, who, 

Incarnate, was from high, 
Whom Jewish men nailed up in scorn, 

With murderers to die. 

Now, Lord of Glory, to His ear 

Well pleasing is the song 
That rises with the Sabbath sun, 

From childhood's happy throng ; 
For He that spans the rolling worlds, 

And marks the seraph's way, 
Will not disdain when infant years 

His perfect will obey. 

But kindly through disparting skies 

His shining way he rends, 
To hear the early hymn that with 

His upper music blends ; 
Descending to the lowly praise 

That breathes from lips of love, 
Unmindful of the song that breaks 

Around His throne above. 


Then, while in blessedness we walk 
Where angels never trod, 

We '11 give, with holy cheerfulness, 
The humble heart to God. 


On this the Saviour looketh down 
From place of cherubim, 

And for this worship leaves awhile 
The everlasting hymn. 


I bowed within the house of prayer 

That lifts a decent dome, 
Whose starry standard told me where 

The Sailor finds a home. 

And there knelt weather-beaten forms, 

The last of many a crew — 
And cheerful youth, who scarce the storms 

Of cold existence knew. 

The preacher prayed, — Jack dashed the tear 

From off his rugged face ; 
The preacher plead, — Jack smiled, for Fear 

To Hope had given place. 

I've worshipped where cathedrals flung 

Their arches o'er the proud ; 
I've listened, when to organ rung 

The anthem of the crowd ; — 

But never in the brilliant aisle 

Where rings and diamonds blazed — 

And each vast pillar of the pile 
Sublimely stood upraised, — 


Such fellowship of heaven have felt, 
As when, beneath that dome, 

With Ocean's hardy sons I knelt, 
And found myself at home. 


His path is the ocean, he maketh his dwelling 

Where tempests are cradled, and winds rudely blow ; 

His joys, like the billows he buffets, now swelling, 
And now like to them sunk forgotten below. 

On land with his messmates to share he is willing, 

By veterans in wickedness easily led ; 
He 's fleeced, cast adrift, when is gone the last shilling, 

The sky for Ins covering, the pavement his bed. 

By perils, by watchings, by misery broken, 

Of the world he is weary, though few are his years ; 

Does he sigh for a better ! — to him none has spoken 
Of the clime where forever are wiped away tears. 

In penury now, and in dread of the morrow, 

He 's friendless, forsaken, and haggard, and mean ; 

The jest of the thoughtless, he lingers in sorrow, 
Till Death kindly enters and closes the scene. 

And such is the Mariner ! — such was he, rather, 
Till justice had taught us our duty to him ; 

Now gladly and freely, life's comforts we gather 
Around his rough course, so long dreary and dim. 


Life's comforts ! — yes, and to him shall be given, 
From hearty benevolence here running o'er 

The Chart that directs the poor wanderer to heaven - 
The Star that shines out on Eternity's shore. 

In storms shall rise sweetly the Sailor's devotion, 
His song in the calm of the beautiful sea, 

In Bethels ashore, in his toil on the ocean, 
To God, who the God of the lowly will be. 


The judgement day! the judgement day! 
When flaming worlds will haste away, — 
If mine it is that day to stand, 
A ransomed one, at Thy right hand, — 

How could I gaze upon the throng 
That wake on golden lyres the song, 
If none, that day, the rapture share, 
Led by my love and labor there ? 

While spirits, each to each, would tell 
Of weal and woe that here befell, 
Should I not, from the frowning throne, 
Wander in heaven, unblest, alone ? 

While life is lent, before that day 
Draws on, when toil is past away, 
Let me, well learned the heavenly road, 
Lead others the same path to God. 




When o'er long night the bursting dawn 

In youthful bloom appeared — 
When angels hymned the rising morn, 

And songs in heaven were heard — 
Amid the burning orbs that gemmed 

Jehovah's viewless throne, 
In native glory diademed, 

One Star was seen alone. 

O'er Palestine, fair Solyma, 

Benignantly serene, 
Precursor of a brighter day, 

The harbinger was seen. 
The captive saw the symbol shine — 

His broken fetters fell ; 
The Shepherd marked the peerless sign 

That told Immanuel. 

In latter time, we view it burn 

With undiminished ray ; 
It leads the Pagan's glad return, 

It cheers the wanderer's way. 
On sea and land, at home, afar, 

Its beam to Peace inclines ; 
From East to West, the holy Star, 

The Star of Jesus shines. 



God — of earth the only Ruler — 
Why should earth forget thee so ! 

God of nations, shall the nations 
Thee, their only Ruler, know ? 

Old dominions, proud dominions — 
How they rose, the boast of men ! 

But they knew not God, and therefore 
Sank they into dust again. 

Where art thou, imperial Tyre? 

City from the ocean won — 
Hundred-gated Thebes and Memphis, 

Nineveh and Babylon ? 

God, Bow slow to learn are nations ! 

Else should we have spelled thy Name ; 
In their end have read thine anger ; — 

Grant that ours be not the same. 

New Republics, tall Republics, 

Homes of free and fearless men — 

As the ancient, proud dominions, 
Thou wilt sink to dust again, 

If they know Thee not. — Ruler, 

Let not ours forget Thee so ; 
God of nations, let our nation 

Thee, its only Ruler, know ! 




Beneath thy folds, holy Cross ! 

The gallant vessels trimly go ; 
Joy at the helm — delay or loss 

Such heavenly voyage may never know. 

The ships of Tarshish trooping first, 

As clouds and homeward doves are seen ; 

The leaping Hebrew treads the dust 
Of long lost, lovely Palestine. 

I see thee waving from the prow 
Where herald-feet in beauty are ; 

To dying nations bearing now 

The healing beams of Jacob's Star. 

A thousand thousand masts display 
To wondering realms, thy sacred sign ; 

I see it stream o'er sea and bay, 
From either Arctic to the Line. 

I see thee float where warriors rushed, 
At hell's alarum, to the strife ; — 

And rusting swords, and tumults hushed, 
Tell only of the Prince of Life. 

Foes tremble, as from tower to tower 
They mark thy glorious signal fly ; 


Saints upward look ; they know the hour 
Of their redemption draweth nigh. 

God, the hour speed on ! speed on ! 

When sin's tall wave shall wildly toss 
Thy Church no more ; when, conflict done, 

She '11 sing of victory 'neath the Cross. 


Come Warriors ! to the earnest fray ; 

Enlisted ye for life, 
Ye must be up for Christ, to-day ; 

All eager for the strife. 

Your swords all keen, your swords all bright, 

Your breast-plates girded on — 
Gather ye to the glorious fight ; 

A Kingdom must be won. 

Come on, as mail-clad veterans do, 

And let the work be warm ; 
Your weapons are not frail nor few, — 

Take heaven itself by storm. 

No fear ! — who fears ? — God'3 tallest towers, 

'T is yours, in faith, to scale ; 
And He, himself, will nerve your powers 

Against them to prevail. 


In His Name venture rock and crag ; 

The coward only falls ; — 
Come on ! He 's honored when your flj 

Is planted on his walls. 

Yes, to the shout of victor-cheer, 
That, conquerors, ye shall bring — 

God will bestow approving ear, 
And vanquished Heaven will sing ! 


There is a German tradition, that when a sndden silence takes place in a 
company, an angel at that moment makes a circuit among them, and the 
first person who breaks the silence is supposed to have been touched by 
the wing of the passing seraph. 

And why should wisdom smile at this ? 

Are not those perfect beings nigh, 
To witness and to share our bliss, 

To hear and hush the secret sigh ? 
Yes, they may Heaven's solace bring, 
Then scorn not thou, the Angel's Wing ! 

Thou ! who, alone, thyself dost deem 

A solitary in thy grief — 
List ! soft as footfall of a dream, 

Comes one to bear thee sweet relief; 
And fled is all thy hoarded care, 
The passing Seraph's Wing is there ! 


Thou, who, forgiven, dost possess 
The penitent's intense delight, 

When the dark cloud of guilt's distress 
Reveals to thee its edge of light, — 

Think ! as unhallowed tempests fly, 

Thy soul is touched, the Wing is nigh ! 

And thou, of contemplative mood, 
Who dost at eve in wild woods stray, 

Where nought of this world may intrude, 
When fancy might in others play, 

And hearest the voice that zephyr flings — 

No ! 't is the rush of Angel Wings. 

Oh, I have paused a space, as 't were, 
Bewildering thoughts to gather up, — 

To put aside the draught of care, 
And taste of Mind's exalted cup ; 

Nor knew what o'er my soul could bring 

Such calmness, was the Seraph's Wing. 

When brooding tempters caused me shame, 

And in its company of sin 
My spirit sat — the Angel came, 

And swept with Wings the heart within ; 
A moment made its circuit there, 
And broke my silence into prayer. 

I knelt beside my precious boy, 

Who went, at childhood's fairy time, 

My hope, my life, my being's joy — 
From this to Love's unclouded clime ; 

And, while around wept pitying men, 

Rejoiced — the Angel touched me then ! 



And at my own departing hour, 
When earth recedes and follies fly, 

To comfort me with heavenly power 
Descend! some herald of the sky — 

And while of victory I sing, 

Bear me away on upward Wing ! 


In our secret souls we know it, 
Griefs confess and joy doth show it, 
Lowly sigh and quiet tear 
Tell, the Holy Ghost is here ! 

Simeon's song from old men, now, 
Lisping praise from children, now, 
Young men bowed, the influence feeling, 
Maidens, in their meekness, kneeling — 

Faltering hymn, and broken prayer, 
Moanings of the heart's despair, 
Peace, revealed, of pardoned sin, 
Tell, the Spirit is within ! 




" If Jesus were still a man of sorrows, not having where to lay his head, 
Piety might spread him a table and provide him a home, Affection might 
weave for him the seamless garment, or break the alabaster box of oint- 
ment of spikenard, very precious, for his burial. Poverty herself might 
wash his feet with her tears, and wipe them with her hair. Wealth might 
find him a new sepulchre, hewn in the rock, where never man was yet laid. 
And as a final act of homage, Gratitude might bring her spices and oint- 
ments, about a hundred pounds weight, as the manner was of the Jews to 
bury." — Decapolis. 

Saviour ! wert thou now below, 
'T would be my joy to follow thee ; 

Where thou wouldst lead, I 'd freely go, 
And naught should keep my Lord from me. 

1 ? d haste to serve thee ; and to wait 

In humblest duty at thy feet, 
Prefer to thrones of mortal state, 
Or e'en a burning seraph's seat. 

How sweet to minister to Thee, 

Who once our earth in pity trod ! 
How blest, a household guest, to see 

The Man of grief, the very God ! 

Yet though I cannot do as they 

Who waited on thy earthly need — 

To serve thy heavenly state I may ; 
And minister to thee indeed. 


I may bring thee the soul undone, 

That ne'er before had sought thy face ; 

I may win home a wretched one, 

Who far has wandered from thy grace. 

Thou wouldst be honored more, by toil 
Of mine to save some erring soul, 

Than if I could the countless spoil 
Of worlds submit to thy control. 

Thou wouldst discern more real love 
In act of mine, the lost to gain, 

Than if such praise as peals above 
I gave thee — could I peal such strain. 

Then let me ne'er lament, that I 
May nothing do for thy dear Name, 

While deathless ones are near to die, 
While sons of God are heirs of shame. 


He who medicines the Sick 

Will himself diseased be, 
If for self he use no trick 

Baffling the infirmity ; 
Lo ! his patient laughs at Death ; 

Lo ! the victory he doth win ; 
All the while Fever's breath 

Unaware, he sucketh in. 

He who ministers to hearts 
Rotten with infectious guilt, 


Sees decay his own good parts, 
Sees his wounded graces wilt, 

If unwonted Unction's power 
Feedeth not the holy flame ; — 

Woe for self the evil hour 

Given to others' Sin and Shame ! 

He who soundeth Mercy's call, 

And doth others 9 hearts unlock 
"While his own is stupid, shall 

Find his own become a rock ! 
He who other vineyard keepeth, 

— Noting half the Master's rule — 
O'er his own — a sluggard — sleepeth, 

Cheats himself, and is a fool ! 


Now up ! ye that have interest 

In Heaven's holy love, — 
Ye that for Zion travail sore, 

Look to her Help above. 
And up ! ye Christian men and true, 

And to the throne repair, 
And storm and take it in the bold 

Conspiracy of prayer. 

Not for a single household, Christ 

Calls out his ranks to day ; 
Not for a town or province ye 

Are marshaled up to pray ; 


The trumpet is for mighty lands ; 

And we have flag unfurled, 
And girded sword, by countless bands, 

In struggle for a world. 

And not alone, or few, are we ; 

From sultry Orient's shore, 
A cry has reached God's majesty 

That rent the West before. 
And where Pacific's corals lie, 

From Smyrna and Japan, 
From London and Jerusalem, 

The cry goes up for man. 

Not prayer and praise alone ! — your gifts 

Upon the altar lay ; 
Who gives not, cannot for a world 

Importunately pray. 
Give of abundance ; give ye, too, 

By poverty opprest ; 
Here, if at all, the widow's mite 

Hath honor o'er the rest. 

Up ! ye that signs discern, in crowds ; 

There's muttering in the air ; 
Up ! for the bow is on the clouds, 

The storm has past at prayer. 
And while the worldling asks for wealth, 

Ambition for its goal, 
We, at that open Mercy seat, 

Will wrestle for the soul. 



"Jesus went up to Jerusalem, and found in the temple those that sold 
oxen, and sheep, and doves, and the changers of money sitting; and when 
he had made a scourge of small cords, he drove them all out of the temple, 
and the sheep and the oxen ; and poured out the changers' money, and 
overthrew the tables; and said unto those that sold doves, Take these 
things hence." — John ii. 13: 16. 

Messiah saw within 

The holy court 
Of his own Temple, grievous sin, 

Traffic and mummery and sport. 

The money changers sat, 

Watching for gain, 
Stout oxen, sheep, lambs, sleek and fat, 

That should in sacrifice be slain. 

He drove out beast and men 

Forth to the day ; 
And to the fair dove-sellers then 

Said, gently, " Take these things away." 

How could a corded whip 

Expel those thence, 
Wielded by one, — and not a lip 

Move, nor an arm in fierce defence ? 

'T was not the feeble rod 

That made the rout : 
They saw his eye — they knew the God, — 

The present God, then flashing out! 



God, that I no longer lie 

In horrid depths of sin and shame, 
Degraded, reckless, ruined — I 

Owe unto thee. — I bless thy Name ! 
My fellow-men had cast me out 
To perish ; and the brutal shout 
"Was all I heard to comfort me. 

1 saw but scorn, — I worship Thee ! 

There 's joy where rained but tears before ; 

This withered heart revives ! — 't is warm ! 
Long tossed, I touch at last the shore, 

And from my soul has passed the storm. 
My wife ! — she never lived till now ! 
My girl ! — ha ! here 's a quiet brow ; 
My boy, with love above his years, 
A father's frown no longer fears. 

Restored, I take his lawful place, 

Who well fulfils great Nature's plan ; 
I tremble at no mortal's face ; 

I write myself, to-day, A man ! 
Whereas in sin I once was lost, 
A foolish wanderer, vexed and crossed — 
I 'm found ! I 'm found ! — I lift my head, 
Wlio lately lay among the dead. 

I joy! I triumph! yet I fear ! 

I am but dust, thou knowest, Lord ; 


If Thou who led'st me, leav'st me here, 

I falsify my plighted word. 
That broken vow the entering wedge 
Will be to deeper guilt. — The pledge, 
If kept, an angel, nigh, will be ; 
If broke, a devil unto me ! 

"What can I do, if Cunning wear 

The mask of Wisdom, and to pass 
The weary hours, with smiles declare, 

There 's nothing like the social glass ? 
This I 'd resist — put down — but what 
If from the cleansing yet one spot 
Escaped — and lurks some inward will — 
The leprosy remaining still ! 

What, if in an unguarded hour, 

I, left alone in Virtue's pride, 
And seeing not the tempest lower, 

And hearing not the coming tide, — 
Beneath the Pledge my fortunes screening, 
Ail-proudly on my own works leaning, 
Should find how insufficient all 
My feeble arm can do — and fall ! 

Fall! never, never, to regain 

My station ; — hope forever crost ; 

On wife, and child, and self, a stain 
Written in tears of blood, — all lost t 

O God, it must not, cannot be : 

It will not, if I trust in thee ; 

Then as Thou art, be still my friend, 

And keep me even to the end. 



He that had been possessed, and whom 
The Saviour did from chains unbind, — 

The living inmate of the tomb, 

Clothed, and restored to his right mind — 

Put up one prayer* — his prayer is mine ! 

Jesus, that I may be Thine ; 

That where Thou art I may abide, 

Clinging, a child, to Thy dear side. 


I walk among the plants and flowers, — 
The air is charged with sweets ; 

I live, as this Arabian gale 
My fainting spirit greets. 

I go : — my garments bear away 

The fragrance on them laid ; 
And with their many-voiced perfumes 

Tell where to-day I 've strayed. 

And so the soul that seeks delight 

In interview with God, 
And hath His garden of chief spice, 

Myrrh, aloes, cassia, trod, 

Will find, wherever he may go, 

The fragrance with him stay ; 
And Heaven, still lingering on his steps — 

More odorous than May. 

* St. Mark, v. 18. 



Seven* planets keep around the sun 

Diurnal annual course ; 
Attraction's law obey as one, 

As one, Repulsion's force. 
Seven planets sing, all night, all day, 

" Who made us is divine ; 
None sees us, on our spangled way, 

In equal beauty shine. 

To six, no tidings ever flew 

Of Pity strong to save ; 
The Maker's tread they never knew, 

Nor lent their God a grave. 
The seventh saw His diadems 

On Mary's Offspring rest ; 
Earth, as she journeys, wears the gems 

His blood and tears impressed." 

If thus His penury gilds our Earth, 

Where wept and wandered He, 
What splendors, where He's crowned, have birth ! 

How glorious Heaven must be ! 
God, to live and love below, 

That we may Him adore 
Where all thy saints, as suns, shall glow, 

When planets shine no more ! 

* I take the seven, known only at the close of the last century. 



"And Aaron shall lay both his hands npon the heao 1 of the live goat, and 
confess over him all the iniquities of the children of Israel, and all their 
transgressions in all their sins, putting them npon the head of the goat, and 
shall send him away by the hand of a fit man into the wilderness ; and the 
goat shall bear upon him all their iniquities into a land not inhabited." — 
Leviticus^ xvi. 21, 22. 

Away to the desert the Scape-Goat flies ; 
On him the sin of the people lies ; 
Confession is made with the laying of hands, 
And he bears the transgression to desolate lands. 

To desolate lands, with an errand of woes, 
And a curse for his burden, the fugitive goes ; 
And none may stay him on his path — 
The heavily-prest with Jehovah's wrath. 

Now, Israel ! be glad ; — let the timbrel and song 
Through thy tents the thank-offering of music prolong ; 
From sin and transgression and bale thou art free, 
From the cherubim God communeth with thee. 

'Tis past ! and the altar no longer is red 
"With blood, or with flame of the sacrifice fed ; 
The Scape-Goat, no longer with burden of woes, 
And the curse due for sin, to the wilderness goes. 

And where are the sinning nations now ? 
Do earth's kingdoms no more to idolatry bow ? 
Transgression and crime, are they found not with us ? 
And who shall bear off the burden of curse ? 



No Aaron is here with the laying of hands 
On the goat that conveys to desolate lands 
The guilt of the people, without and within, 
To leave them released from the thraldom of sin. 

Did Israel return to his folly again ? 
Type, symbol, and substance — for him were they vain ? 
Where shall the wild Gentile appear in his pride, 
When the olive of God even withered and died ? 

Priest of Melchizedek ! only to Thee 
Appealing he looks — for Thou only canst free ; 
Not a family, tribe, nor a nation alone — 

For a world that has wandered thy blood can atone. 

In the Garden, on Thee, all its guilt that had past, 
And all that the future uncounted could cast. 
Was confessed, when the hands of Infinite Power 
Were laid on the Infinite in agony's hour. 

On the Cross, Thou didst take it, and bear it away 
To lands, where dark Death and Corruption have sway, 
And though fanned in their triumph by arrogant wing, 
Thou saw'st not their reign, and thou knew'st not their sting. 

To that Cross, in my sorrow, dear Saviour, I fly, 
Assured by the mercy that beams from thine eye, 
That from sin, by thy suffering, forever made free, 

1 am safe, Blessed Sacrifice ! only with Thee. 




" The last pulpit that I ascended in the Society Islands, was at Rurutu, 
where the rails, connected with the pulpit stairs, were formed of warriors' 
spears." — Rev. Mr. Ellis, Missionary to the Society Islands, 

Barbarians of the Southern Sea, 
As the wild waters round them, free, 
Were slaves to folly, fear, and sin ; 
What could such to Religion win ? 

They knelt to idols carved of stone ; 
To fish and fowl, to block and bone ; 
They entered hell to find a god 
Worse than the rest, and gave him blood. 

The mother dug, with fierce delight, 
For one, just new to this world's light, 
A grave, — and she, a devil, vampt, 
The earth upon the living stampt. 

The son led out his old, sick sire, 
Where waves come in and waves retire, 
And left him for their rage to sweep 
Into the black, returnless deep. 

All ranks pollution understood ; 

To search its dreadful depths seemed good ; 

Daughter and sister, father, son, 

To work its evil work were won. 


Warrior on warrior made attack ; 
Death followed fast the arrow's track ; 
And those whom battle spared, were doomed 
To be in human gorge entombed. 

By Cruelty and bloody Lust, 
By Drink, inflaming cursed thirst, 
By Sickness, War, and Want were they 
Death and Destruction's easy prey. 

Knew they not God ? — deemed they that Fate 
Had formed them for malignant hate ? 
Their sentient thousands brought to birth, 
Objects of the Creator's mirth ? 

Knew they not God ? — and glowed no hint 
Of Goodness in his sunrise tint ? 
Knew they not God ? — nor saw confessed 
Forbearance in his sunset west? 

Knew they not God ! — They might have seen 

His beauty in the glorious green 

Of these fair islands ; — heard his voice 

In Nature's song, that bade " Rejoice ! " 

And witnessed, in the soil they trod, 
Heaved up in coral wonder — God ! 
And marked his footsteps, bathed in wrath, 
On the volcano's fiery path. 

Yet He, who these bright isles had cast, 
Gems on His robe of waves — The Past, 
The Present, Future, Known, Unknown, 
Who wheels on willing worlds His throne, 



Who, on our virgin world of bliss 
Prest, when He made it, Love's first kiss, 
And 'mid his angels' glad acclaim, 
" Good ! " only " Good ! " pronounced its name, 

Was here unnamed ; — though every hill 
Its Maker knew ; each conscious rill, 
Leaping and sparkling, told of Him ; 
Morn's blush, and Evening's twilight dim 

Proclaimed the God ; — these valleys rung, 

In music, " God ! " Pacific sung, 
" God ! " mountain, mead, rill, rock, replied, 
" God ! God ! " — they heard not, raved and died. 

Till missionary's feet made glad 
The solitudes, by sin made sad ; 
Till apostolic feet to view 
Was beautiful on Rurutu ! 

Till songs to Christ took place of cries 
Shrieked o'er the monarch's sacrifice ; 
Till tears were seen his robe to gem, 
Outshining his starred diadem. 

Now speaks Redemption's herald — spears 
Flash round him ! Cease, ye busy fears ! 
Festooned are they in comely rails, — 
The Word of Promise never fails ! 

Memorials, they, where thousands kneel, 
Of wounds, that only Grace can heal ; 
Reminding of the Spear that slays, 
And brings to life, when man obeys. 


Harmless of blood, they fence the place 
Where beams with heaven the teacher's face ; 
Nor, like the sword of Eden, burning, 
Hinder one wanderer from returning. 

Barbarians of the Southern Sea, 
Or Northern continents, though free 
As fiends incarnate are to sin — 
Grace, that has w r on my soul, can win ! 


Yea, thou forbearest, Lord, 
Thou renderest not reward 

Due to my sin. 
Thou knowest all my heart, 
Yet with me patient art, 

Me, vile within ! 

Though irritable these 

My passions are, — like seas 

Raging aloud, — 
Tempests that mock control, 
Vexing my weary soul, 

Yet am I proud. 

Yea, proud — though of a day 
That 's vanishing away ; 

Lord, I would learn 
Meekness of thee, and bear 
Whate'er thou send'st of care, 

Nor trials spurn. 


Rebelliously doth flesh 
Involve me in the mesh 

Of hurtful strife ; 
Within my nature dwell 
The sparks that kindle hell ; 

Help — for my life ! 

Like touchwood, I the flame 

Do catch. Lord, 't is with shame 

My shame I own. 
Bathe me anew in blood 
That gushes in rich flood, 

Fast from thy throne. 

Thou Wast ! Thou Art! Wilt Be ! 
Vouchsafe to lesson me 

To bear thy will. 
From open foes, false friends, 
And all thy love intends, 

Submissive still. 

Even as thy blessed Son, 
The meekly suffering One, 

The Deity — 
Patient, when woke the sword, 
From whom fell never word 


Who did not inward fret 
When sorely Him beset 

The powers infernal ; 
Most patiently who cried, 
Most patiently who died, 

Because Eternal ! 



I'll look to Thee, my Saviour! when 

The gales of fortune gently blow, 
And every good, esteemed of men, 

It is my privilege to know. 
I '11 look from altars, whereon lie 

The coals of earth's imperfect fire, 
To that bright Source beyond the sky, 

Which burns intenser, holier, higher. 

I '11 look to Thee, when sorrows press 

With awful weight upon my head, — 
A wanderer in this wilderness, 

Alone, or with the joyless dead. 
When hope still sleeps, and wakeful thought 

Preys on its hoarded misery, 
Even then, by thy sweet precept taught, 

In tears I '11 only look to Thee. 

I '11 look to Thee, when sickness pales 

This brow, and wastes this frame away ; 
When strength departs and spirit fails, 

And all my inward powers decay. 
Yea, at the hour when nature faints 

In its last mortal agony, 
Strong in the Refuge of the saints, 

I'll look to Thee, I'll look to Thee. 



Wouldst thou be cleansed from every taint 

Of grievous and defiling sin ? 
And is it truly thy complaint 

That Vileness lurks within ? 

And do thy heart-strings wail thy woe ? 

And pants thy spirit to be free ? 
And do outbreathings hourly go 

For perfect purity ? 

Alone, alone, and passion-tost ; — 

Though rescued from Destruction's brink, 

Still on the seas where souls are lost, 
And fearing thou shalt sink. 

Spake unto thee, the Voice that charmed 

Judea's waters once to rest — 
And is not all the tempest calmed 

To silence in thy breast ? 

Hear ! — for 't is easy to the heart, 
That meekly sits, of Christ to learn ; 

"Words, that to darkness light impart, 
In such shall clearly burn. 

Below thy raging sins sink down, 
Nor heed their stormy strife above ; 

Thou shalt not meet a Saviour's frown 
Within his arms of love. 


Down, down in dust ! — the only place 
For lips that press despair's full cup ; — 

Thence the strong arm of Sovereign Grace 
Shall quickly raise thee up. 

Humility, at Jesus' feet, 

In wondrous beauty stands confest ; — 
Take by thy Lord the lowest seat, 

A weeping, welcome guest. 

*T was on the mount the pilgrim* grew 
A boastful man, and proud and vain, — 

But in the vale he had Sin's view, 
And was a child again. 

Trust Him who saves, to cleanse thy soul ; 

To limit boundless Love, beware ! 
Grace, that begins, completes the whole; 

To prove it, be thy care. 

" For holiness ! " goes up thy cry ? 

'T was mine, is mine, and still shall be ; — 
Yet, when I 'm humble, Christ is nigh, 
And blessed purity. 

* Pilgrim's Progress. 




Thus she stood amid the stooks, 

Praising God with sweetest looks. — Ruth. 

Modest Beauty praises God, 
When it sends its glance abroad. 
With a look of cheerfulness ; 
Beauty doth the Giver bless, 
When its roses show the hue 
Of bright health, with lip of dew, 
And religion of a face 
Where is written all of grace. 
What a holy hymn is ever 
With a sweet expression blent ! 
Sending music up, that never 
Skilless, soulless Art hath sent ; 
Rendering worship, such as we 
In the lines of Beauty see. 
From the eye of diadems, 
From the mouth of pearls and gems, 
From the smile of calm delight — 
Beaming intellectual light, — 
From the nameless, charming whole 
That holds empire in the soul — 
Doth in harmony arise 
Beauty's homage to the skies. 



Sung at Newton, on the day of the National Fast, 14th May, 1841, in 
commemoration of the death of President Harrison. 

Given is to earth its treasure ; 

Relics ! slumber in the dust ; 
Yielded is to God the spirit, — 

Spirit! mingle with the Just. 

" Earth to earth " — if this were only 
Wailing in our hymns of woe, 
God, what darkness thy creation, 
Soulless, hopeless, lost, would know ! 

In that cry, in yonder palace, 

Spirit unto spirit calls ; 
See ! the Reaper lays the Mighty, — 

Yet the body only falls. 

Not a city, not a province — 
*T is a nation hears the rod ; 

Awful is the lesson taught us ; — 
Appointer ! Thou art God ! 

Humbled at the throne of Heaven, 
Whose rebuke a people feel — 

Let the tear for sin be given, 

Where, to-day, our millions kneel. 


Warrior ! Chieftain ! Statesman ! Ruler ! 

Honor heaped upon thy brow — 
Filled Ambition's golden chalice — 

What are these ! and what art thou ! 

Father ! Brother ! Patriot ! Christian ! 

Titles graven on the heart, — 
These are names by which we know thee, 

These and thou can never part. 

Given is to earth its treasure ; 

Relics ! slumber in the dust ; 
Yielded is to God the spirit, — 

Spirit ! mingle with the Just. 


She had his holy influence felt, 

Who woos with strong, yet gentle call ; 

And, yielding, to her Lord had knelt, 
And freely, gladly, given him all. 

So deemed she, and so others deemed; 

The world believed her as she seemed. 

Yet not to self was self revealed ; 

Deceived even there, where Christians pray, 
Where Mercy oft its own hath sealed, 

Not in the open face of day, — 
Her wanderings had beginning where 
Arose the formal, closet prayer. 


She lost her love — a grievous loss ! 

Though reckoned as of small account 
By lukewarm followers of the cross, 

Who seek not, prize not, Tabor's mount. 
Who from its wondrous glories turn 
To where earth's little cressets burn. 

Yet, sometimes troubled conscience woke ; 

She more than doubted all was wrong; 
Where was the joy she knew, when broke 

Light on her darkness? where the song, 
When she salvation's highway trod, 
A pilgrim-maid, betrothed to God ? 

Why shunned she thus the speech of those 
Who talked of Christ, and loved the theme ? 

Why left she thus the Rock, whence flows 
Answer in one perpetual stream — 

Where sisters in their circle meet, 

And hearts are mingled at his feet ? 

O'er wanderings that no worldling knew, 
And by the Saviour's friends unseen, 

She, blinded and presumptuous, threw 
The self-deceiver's failing screen. 

From her own heart her heart to hide, 

She, leaving God, conferred with Pride. 

And yet no overt act of sin, 

To scandalize the church, was there ; 

She wore the semblance that could win 
Others, and to herself was fair. 

Mild, modest, courteous, free from strife, 

Of good report, of blameless life. 


© © 


She sat, as thousands sit, to hear 
The holy gospel's trumpet blown ; 

Like thousands, she that feast drew near, 
Spread only for the Saviour's own. 

And who might judge ? — who dare to say 

She was not truly sealed as they ? 

She lived, as thou, false one, dost live ; 

Had hopes as strong, as bright, as thine ; 
Such evidence as thou canst give 

Was hers of claim to life divine ; 
Alternate joys, alternate tears, 
Ecstatic visions, shadowy fears. 

Till that « detecter of the heart," 

A death-bed, came ! — They looked to see 
How a young Christian might depart, 

How put on immortality. 
They gathered round to mark the power 
Of Faith, in nature's trial-hour. 

Mysterious Faith, which bids the old 
Tread that dark vale without alarm, 

And to the youngest of the fold 

Shows the kind Shepherd's helping arm, 

Who leads the lambs a gentle way, 

Where flowerets bloom and waters play. 

How could she hail the blessed state 
That never won her earnest care ? 

How could firm Faith a death-bed wait, 
Where Love stood not attendant there, 

Ready at the first word to fly, 

And bear its precious charge on high ? 


What saw they ! — fear, beyond the fear 

"Which those who lean on Christ should know, 

Who have His promise to be near 
In Jordan's deepest overflow ; 

Who at the grave of victory sing ; 

Who ask of baffled Death his sting. 

What heard they ? — sounds that never fall 
From lips by sweet forgiveness prest, 

When saints on Jesus faltering call, 
And sleep in Jesus, truly blest ; 

When near them are the convoy-band, 

And glory from the " better land." 

Despair gave meaning to those eyes, 
Whose lustre mocked the film of death ; 

Despair gave terror to those cries, 

That struggled with the struggling breath ; 
" God ! God ! art thou so nigh ? 

I cannot ! — no, I will not die ! " 

She died — she died so poor, who yet 

Had hopes, like thine, of treasure stored ; 

She died — she, starving, died, who met, 
Like thee, with Christ around his board. 

Stand thy best hopes on surer ground ? 

Hast thou in truth, a Saviour found ? 



To saved ones that dwell in the bowers of heaven, 

Where smiles are not dimmed by the frequent tear, 
With bliss that 's unfading, for ever is given 

Freedom from fears which preyed on them here. 
Earth past — they, unheeding its laugh or its care, 

Joy not in its joys, sorrow not for its woe, — 
Ever soaring and singing, the glorified there 

Never notice the weary or weeper below. 

Yet when the happy in brightness is kneeling 

To Him who maketh the darkness his seat, — 
And love and humility sweetly revealing, 

Is casting the crown at Immanuel's feet — 
Though he museth not there on the one he has left 

In sin to mourn, in the flesh to stay, — 
The child, of a friend, a father bereft, 

Wandering alone in the perilous way, — 

Think ye not, then, the eye that ne'er sleepeth, 

Is resting in kindness and care on that son ? 
That God, who the seed of the righteous keepeth, 

Guards, and will guard him, till toiling is done ? 
Oh, surely, the sighs and the prayers of the good 

For children, are heard in their confident trust ; 
And Heaven replies as no parent could, 

When lips that breathed them are sealed in dust. 



He traverses the fertile fields 

Of pleasant Maryland ; 
And in the Old Dominion 

Doth the Missionary stand. 
In sunny Carolina's 

Pine and cotton ground, 
By the flooded rice-plantation, 

The journeyer is found. 
Along the fervid plains 

Of Georgia, not delaying, 
Among the growth of canes 

Of Alabama, straying. 
And onward, onward goeth he, 

Unwearied in his way, 
Till hoarsely thunders on his ear 

The surging Florida. 

He climbs the Alleghany's side, 

And seeth from its crown 
Ohio's ever busy tide 

To ocean sweeping down. 
He tempts the waters — on he hies, 

A transitory guest — 
And open to his joyous eyes 

The splendors of the West. 
By vineyards and by villages, 

By island groups that gem 
The river, by the wooded slopes — 

He stayeth not for them. 


Nor pauseth he at Grave creek, 
Nor measureth the mound, — 

There are dead beyond that ought to live, 
And lost that must be found ! 

Nor minds he Marietta's sheen, 

Nor Blannerhasset's isle ; 
Nor where, confessedly a queen, 

Doth Cincinnati smile. 
Kentucky sees the traveller, 

And in her settlements 
He speaketh, as he journeyeth, 

Of glorious intents. 
And Indiana hears him ; 

Anon, his cheerful voice 
Breaks on the flowery prairies 

Of distant Illinois. 
Upon him vast Missouri 

Bursts like a virgin world ; 
And gorgeous Louisiana, 

Where commerce is unfurled. 

And wherefore from Atlantic comes 

The traveller, and whence 
The errand that he must impart 

Before he goeth hence ? 
Why is the Southron's country trod 

By him who needeth rest ? 
Why seeks that zealous man of God 

The valley of the West? 
From Alleghany to the sea, 

From ocean to the lake — 



From where its solemn echoes 

Niagara doth wake — 
To pour the sunlight of the sky 

Upon the uncultured wild, 
To show the love that God on high 

Hath for the little child ! 

Where nods the giant sycamore, 

Where grows the wild papaw, 
To rear the floweret that from Heaven 

Its nutriment shall draw. 
To stud the boundless prairie 

With trees of Lebanon, 
To pierce the noble forest depths 

With glances of the Sun ; — 
To speak of Jordan's healing 

Where Oregon doth rise — 
Of Calvary, where the rocky hills 

Are towering to the skies. 
Where'er a blade of grass is seen, 

Where'er a river flows, 
To bless that waiting heritage 

With Sharon's living rose. 


I stood beside his dying bed, 

His clammy hand was clasped in mine, — 
And if there 's hope, look up, I said ; 

He dropt a tear, but made no sign. 


I asked him of his misspent years, — 

He had but reached to manhood's prime, — 

And oh, what griefs, and guilt, and fears 
Trooped where he stood on shores of Time ! 

For he to drink had yielded up 

His intellect and noble strength ; 
And now the demon of the cup, 

Exulting, claimed his prey at length. 

I spoke, then, of the broken law, 
Of One who had the forfeit paid, 

And that his faith might strongly draw 
On Him, the Merciful, for aid. 

Renounce thy sins, and loathe thy life, 

So wearily to folly given ; 
And He will calm thy bosom's strife, 

And He will lift thy soul to heaven. 

He cried, " What shall a sinner do ! " 

He wept, — " What dreadful doom is mine ! " 

His face was changed ; despair, I knew, 
Prevailed, for still he made no sign, 

I told him that a shoreless sea 

Is grace, for mortals stained with sin ; 

To doubt were crime — and safely he, 
Defiled, indeed, might venture in. 

I knelt in prayer — if ever I 

Have tasted prayer's prevailing power, 
*T was when my supplicating cry 

Appealed for pity in that hour. 


I prayed that he might see how pure 
The law's demand, how vile his guilt ; 

Oh, mercy ! must this soul endure 

Its pangs, when blood for souls was spilt — 

This gem that might be ever bright 

Where coronals in beauty shine, 
Be locked in depths, whose only light 

Gleams palely from the wrath divine ! 

Rather may he, new-born, be clad 

In robes by Sovereign Love brought down ; 
And stand where angels worship, glad 

With golden harp and starry crown. 

I asked again, if he could now 

Yield all to Him who claims the whole ; 
And at that cross where men must bow 

Or perish, cast his trembling soul — 

And on this bed of sorrow say, 

" Here, Lord ! to be for ever thine, 

A lost one gives himself away ! " — 
He died, he died, and made no sign ! 



'T is well with her, who on that bed 

Of sickness, late, was laid so low ; 
'T is well — though anguish bowed her head, 

And conflicts rent her bosom so. 



'T was well with her in health's glad hour, 
Well, when the wasting arrow came ; 

For she could trust His wing of power, 
And she had learned a Saviour's Name. 

'T is well with her, though we have laid 
In kindred dust that beauteous form ; 

She lives, a bright, celestial maid, 
Far, far above life's raging storm. 

'T is well with her — the lovely one, 
Though like a broken flower she lies ; 

Her mortal puts immortal on, 
Her graces flourish in the skies. 

'T is well with her — oh God, 't is well 
With those whom thou dost kindly love, 

Whether in fleshly tents they dwell, 
Or tread thy starry courts above. 


For the Thirty Thousand, yearly slain by Intemperance. 

I stood amid the place of graves, 
Where hillocks, thick as combing waves, 

Were clustered far around. 
Death held dominion ; here his reign 
Was absolute o'er victims slain, 

Imprisoned in the ground. 



In sorrow's contemplative mood 
I scanned the mingled multitude, 

Whose sepulchres were new. 
One year ago they stood with men, 
And length of days they reckoned then, 

Who now were hid from view. 

And yet from these — what fearful fall 
Was theirs ! — none cared to lift the pall 

That deep Oblivion spread. 
For them no tears of fond regret, 
No midnight's pillow often wet, 

Nor sigh called from the dead. 

Here was the aged father laid, 
And by his dust the sleeping maid ; 

The husband, wife, were here. 
The manly youth, his parents' pride, 
The bridegroom, and the peerless bride, 

The foul worm's dainty cheer. 

Here lay the poor man, and his niche, 
Hard by, filled up the rotting rich," 

Regardless of his state ; 
Of station high, of low degree, 
The abject slave, the haughty free, 

Corruption for their mate. 

The orator of splendid name, 

The chief who taught the foe his fame, 

The giant, godlike mind, — 
The noble, generous, and sincere, 
Those prompt with pity's holy tear, 

The polished and refined. 


Whence came they ? From once happy homes, 
From cottages, from lordly domes, 

From fireside bliss and care ; 
From courts of justice, chambers trod 
By senators ; yes, angry God ! 

From thine own house of prayer ! 

Who slew them ? Not night's pestilence, 
That comes and goes, men know not whence, 

Nor arrow at noonday ; 
They fell not in the glorious field, 
With Right to nerve, and Heaven to shield, 

When Freedom called away. 

They died not as the righteous die, 
When angels, stooping from the sky, 

With songs unloose life's chain. 
By cursed Intemperance found they hell, 
And Ignominy pealed the knell 

Of Thirty Thousand slain. 


Who seeks her Lord in glorious guise, 

Unparalleled in grace — 
Love beaming from her wondrous eyes, 

And beauty from her face ? 
With whom all similes must die, 

All power of language faint, 
Whose charms, with pencil from the sky, 

'T were sacrilege to paint ? 


Why droops her head in anguish thus ? 

Whence those delicious tears? 
As if an angel showed to us 

How angel grief appears. 
What accents murmur, like a dream 

Of music, from her lips ? 
As when in sorrow's saddest theme 

His soul the minstrel dips. 

*T is she — the Saviour's purchased Bride, 

On whom earth's light is dim — 
For whom heaven's brilliance has no pride, 

Reflected not by Him ! 
She bows her in her lonely grief; 

Shall she make suit in vain ? 
Come, Thou ! of every joy the chief, 

And take thy Bride again. 


Oh ! thou only God of wine, 
Comfort this poor heart of mine, 
With that nectar of thy blood. 

Alexander Rosse, 1650. 

Wine of Cyprus, not for me, 
Thou, nor juice of Italy ; 
Nor Atlantic's luscious pride, 
From Madeira's sunny side ; 
Nor from Caprea's royal hoard, 
Nor from Lisbon's modern board, 
Nor from elder Egypt's crypt, 
Which Mark Antony hath stripped — 



Nor from Rhine, or laughing France, 
Where Garonne's blue ripples dance, 
Nor from banks of classic river, 
Winding Po or Guadalquiver. 

All the grapes in vintage crushed, 
Could not satisfy my thirst ; 
Purple flood in crysolite, 
Where it moves itself aright, 
Freely poured in princely hall, 
Sparkling at high festival, 
Well refined, or on the lees, 
Could not my ambition please ; 
Draught that passing pleasure brings, 
Leaving ever-during stings. 

When my lips the beaker kiss, 
I have other Wine than this, 
Taken from the fruitful hill, 
That doth live in poesy still ; 
Where for vine, a cross of wood, 
Guarded by the Roman, stood ; 
Whose rich spoil was gathered when 
Triumphed hell and triumphed men ; 
Crushed and mangled was whose grape, 
While the heavens looked agape, 
And in sackcloth hid — whose Wine, 
Streaming, dimmed the mid-day's shine, 
Fermented in nature's sigh, 
Ripened in the earthquake's cry. 

How it stirs my languid blood ! 
How it cheers my soul, like food ! 


Drink, ye kings ! and cares forget, 
Drink, ye sad ! and triumph yet. 
Drink, ye aged ! strength renew, 
Drink, ye children ! \ is for you. 
Drink, ye pilgrims ! while 't is nigh - 
Drink, nor in the desert die. 
Drink, ye fainting ! thirst ye never, 
Drink, ye dead ! and live for ever ! 


While the solemn note of Time 

Warns me of his hasty tread, 
While the silent march of days 

Tells — " another week hath fled," 
While the hum of busy toil, 

Works of care and labor cease ; 
While the six days' weary strife 

Yields to holy, welcome peace, — 
Let me all the past review ; 

Much hath heaven bestowed on me, 
Much have I to folly given ; 

God ! what have I done for thee ? 
Nearer to my final hour, 

Am I sealed with Jesus' blood ? 
Nearer to eternity, 

Am I nearer to my God ? 
Hasten, pilgrim ! on thy way, 

Gird thee at the martyr's shrine ; 
Hasten, pilgrim ! why delay ? 

Immortality is thine. 



Star of the East ! the Shepherd's Star ! 

Benignant was thy lustre, when 
It told of mercy from afar, 

And beamed Salvation down to men ; 
The mystery, surpassing ken 

Of angel-powers, revealedst thou ; 
Celestial were thy glories then 

That burst and streamed on Midnight's brow. 
As bright thou burn'st in yon blue field, 

How dim to thee the toys of kings ! 
Vain the delight their pageants yield, 

Compared with that which from thee springs ; 
0, Earth, and all her little things 

Of real bliss can give no ray ; 
Her fairest flowers have secret stings, 

Her splendors shine and pass away. 

Star of the East ! no gems that burn 

Amid these lesser orbs we see, 
Or where upon their axles turn 

The worlds of vast infinity, 
Thou peerless One ! can vie with thee ; 

They never heralded the plan, 
Conceived — performed by Deity — 

That speaks of pardon, peace to man : 
They hold along the empyrean coast 

Their viewless march, unheard, unknown ; 


The least among the radiant host, 
That silent shine, and shine alone ; 

But thou, bright Star ! Redemption's own ! 
Didst wander 'mid the light of song ; 

Thou earnest with music from the throne, 
Attended by a seraph throng. 

Star of the East ! the tempest-tost, 

On life's uncertain billows borne, 
Is by rude gales of trouble crossed, 

By hidden rocks of sorrow torn — 
When breaks the cheering Star of Morn, 

When night and thrall for ever flee, 
0, where the doubts and fears forlorn 

Of him, the wanderer of the sea ! 
Break out, blest Star ! with peaceful ray ; 

And if our steps to Truth incline, 
Oh, help and guard our weeping way ! 

Along these doubtful waters shine ! 
The heavenly beacon-light of thine 

That trembled once on Bethlehem's plain, 
Shall guide us to the Source Divine, 

Shall lead us to the Child again. 


Oh, parent, who thy watch art keeping, 
So pleasing, painful, o'er thy boy, — 

Whose vigilance is all unsleeping, 

That he may prove, indeed, thy joy — 


Consider ! while thy care thou deemest 
Enough, at times, thy hope to dim, 

A cloud, of which thou little dreamest, 
Comes up between his bliss and him. 

While he imbibes instruction needed, 
And Precept seems to guide the way, 

Some act of thine, some word, unheeded, 
In sad Example, leads astray ; 

In all the influence that in beauty 

Should cluster round the social hearth, 

In every pleasure, toil and duty 
Of home, the dearest spot on earth, 

With one hand to the living fountain 
Pointing, where he may enter in, 

And with the other, like a mountain, 
Piling along his path thy sin ! 

On Inconsistency that 's blazing 

Thus falsely, where should be true light, 

Thy helpless, ductile offspring gazing — 
How can he find the way that 's right ? 

Oh, cruel ! that the bosom swelling 
With ardor, hope, and promise, fair, 

Should, by thy folly, be the dwelling 
Of guilty pain and keen despair. 

Had he not here — a thoughtless stranger, 
Unskilled life's thousand snares to shun — 

Enough — without thine aid — of danger ? 
And is thy child by thee undone ? 


How many thus, like stars, for ever 
Have set, in baleful night to dwell, 

In spite of Wisdom's strong endeavor, 
Lost by the parent — who may tell ? 

Acts xvi. 14. 

Seller of purple ! Listener to the word 
Brought to thy heart by Silas and by Paul, 
Baptized with all thy household ; thou wast stirred 
By the great debt incurred to grace, by all 
The blessed love that converts have for them 
Who teach stray feet the way to Bethlehem, — 
To show true hospitality of heart, 
To entertain each God-sent, gracious guest, 
Unwilling from such benison to part, 
Thy humble dome with such how greatly blest ! 
Thou wast indeed judged faithful in thy love, 
And holy footsteps honored thy abode ; 
Nobler, thus sheltering heralds from above, 
Than proudest hall by proudest monarch trod ! 




M The Proconsul of Judea here found the termination of his impious life ; 
having, after spending years in the recesses of this mountain, which bears 
his name, at length, in remorse and despair, rather than in penitence, plung- 
ed into the dismal lake which occupies the summit." — Legend in Anne 
of Geierstein. 

" When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing, but that rather a tumult 
was made, he took water, and washed his hands before the multitude, say 
ing, I am innocent of the blood of this just person ; see ye to it." — St, 
Matthew, xxvii. 24. 

Immortal infamy is his 

Who gave the Saviour up 
To bear the Jewish scourge and scorn, 

And drink the Roman cup. 
He washed his hands in sight of men, 

And slander thought to kill, — 
Yet he was damned, and to this hour 

His hands are spotted still. 

There 's something of audacious crime 

In guilty Judas found, 
Though viler than the vilest thing 

That crawls upon the ground ; 
But he who had not fortitude 

In trial's honest hour, 
To own the holy influence 

Of conscience* secret power ; 

And whose unfeeling, coward heart, 

Intent on selfish ease, 
Did seek, with sophistry and art, 

Both God and man to please, — 

) © 


By God abhorred, by man despised, 
And shunned by fiends below — 

Where shall the wretch, to hide himself. 
And hide his meanness, go ! 


" The Sundays of man's life, 
Threaded together on Time's string, 

Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
Of the eternal, glorious King." — The Cliurch. 

Sweet Sabbath ! gift of heaven, that selfish man 
Would never on himself have thus bestowed, — 
A green spot art thou in the dreary road 

Of life, sojourning, every seventh day found ; 

Where we, thought gathered, earth withdrawn, may scan 
The overwhelming glories scattered round 
The universe of God. Or, called by bells, 
Drink, in his temple, where it freely wells, 

Water of Life ; such as the woman drew 

Never by old Samaria, but which knew 

The heavenly Teacher. Me, stript of my pride, 

Show, on this day, as here I waiting lie, 

Panting with thirst, on this parched, waste way side — 

The path, dear Lord ! to Sabbath streams on high. 




Some joy it has been mine to know, 

When, in the closet bending low, 

I've converse held with heaven in prayer, 

And foretastes had of glory there. 

If here, such glimpse is given to me, 

What must the full fruition be ! 

I 've tasted happiness, when bowed 
In worship, with the pious crowd, 
In temple walls, whose full-voiced choir 
Pealed David's notes to David's lyre, 
And felt — if music thus to love 
Woke here, what is its power above ! 

I 've touched those emblems with the saints^ 
Whose use restores the soul that faints, 
And gathered, at the Saviour's board, 
Bliss, earth can neither give nor hoard, — 
And thought, if cheers thus mingled wine, 
What is that crushed, that Living Vine ! 

I 've seen the Christian die, yet ere 

The spirit sought its native sphere, 

I marked, with awe, his kindling eye, 

And eager flush, and heard the sigh 

Of holy rapture — not of pain, 

And said, " What conflict ! yet what gain ! " 


For his pale cheek, I saw, was fanned 
With breezes from the better land ; 
Libations of the next world's bliss 
He drank, before he passed from this ; 
Of Love his life had known the power ; 
Its foretastes sunned the last dark hour. 

Oh, there is something round us thrown 
Of other worlds ! — In crowds, alone, 
By day, by night, we whispers hear, 
From errand angels, always near ; 
Reminding pilgrims of their Home, 
Telling us of the Rest to come. 


Accepting the Swedenborgian Faith. 

My heart took counsel with thy pious heart 
What time we dwelt by fair Ohio's tide ; — 
From Flattery's music thou didst turn aside, 

And in thy graceful modesty, apart, 

With books and God, didst prove the Christian art 
Of drinking Wisdom's waters, undefiled, — 
In spirit humble as a little child. 

And herein 's ointment for the grievous smart 
Of Zion, bruised by thee ! I dare not think 

That Heaven will leave thee in Cimmerian night 

To wander, as do those, once stars of light — 
To die, as meteors die. From the dread brink 

Whence thou art toppling, Voices beckon thee ; — 

Hear them, rash man ! — bach to the strongholds flee ! 




Vineyard of the Lord ! thy treasures 

Plenteous are to wondering sight ; 
How the laden stalks are bending 

With the grain, to harvest white ! 
Wide the field — the world can only 

Bound its precincts. Vast the prize ; — 
To express its value, ages 

Heaped on ages can't suffice. 

Who will enter ? — Laborers, toiling 

In the wasting heat of day, 
Are but few ; and of these, hourly, 

Perish some along the way. 
Who will enter ? — Great thfc burden, 

Hard and constant is the toil ; 
But ye serve a gracious Master, 

And he '11 give you princely spoil. 

Wake, oh, north wind ! on this garden, 

Fainting, dying, strongly blow ; 
Come, thou south ! and, gently breathing, 

Bid its spices freely flow. 
Then, his power confessed, the Spirit 

Hearts shall touch, and sweetly win ; — 
Vineyard ! now, to reap thy harvest, 

Joyful thousands enter in. 



He journeyed on to Galilee, 

Unheralded by fame, 
And wearily to Jacob's Well 

The heavenly Teacher came. 
Upon that fountain's granite lip 

He leaned, and gazed below, 
Where the cool waters gushed and foamed, 

And leaped in frolic flow. 

Who would have thought that weary man, 

Reclined in mean attire 
Here in Samaria — was the theme 

Of all the angel choir ? 
That for this wanderer, faint with thirst, 

Were heaven and hell at strife, — 
That he possessed the crystal key 

Which opes the Well of Life ? 

Oh, when I meet, henceforth, the sad 

And humble child of care, 
Let me not scorn his presence, lest 

I weave myself a snare ; 
For in that poor and broken wretch, 

By whom the dunghill 's trod, 
Unerring Scrutiny may spy 

A sceptred son of God. 





" Do not the tears ran down the widow's cheek ? and is not her cry 
against him that causeth the fatherless to fall? " — The Son of Sirach. 

Man ! who pitiest mortal woe, 

Sighest when the stricken sigh, — 

In whom sweet Compassion's glow 
Stirs the soul and dims the eye, — 

Look upon the Widow's sadness ; 

Bid the Widow leap for gladness. 

Woman ! type of mercy, thou, 

Who thyself all feeling art, 
Wearing pity on thy brow, 

And its impulse in thy heart, 
Hearken to the Widow's groan, 
Weep for her that weeps alone. 

Youth ! the first in deeds of daring, 

Leaving timid Age behind, — 
Following Fortune, yet uncaring 

If she slights thee, or is kind, — 
Stop ! nor proudly scorn her lot 
Which thou understandest not. 

Maiden ! in thy laughing hour, 

Dreaming not of future ill, — 
Yet in whom, with certain power, 

Destiny shall work its will, — 
By thy hopes, that soon must die, 
Hear the Widow's troubled cry. 


Thou ! who sorrowedst o'er the bier, 
Where a widow's son was laid, 

At the gate of Nam, — hear I 
Look, and lend thy gracious aid. 

God ! the counsel came from Thee, 
" Let thy Widows trust in Me." 


Jesus ! once on Galilee 

Thy voice of power was heard, 

When madly that dark heaving sea 
Through all its depths was stirred. 

The forky lightnings Thee revealed, 
Calm, 'mid the storm's increase, 

And far above where thunders pealed, 
Was heard the whisper, " Peace ! " 

How drooped at once that foaming sheet 

Of waters, vexed and wild ! 
Each wave came falling at thy feet, 

Just like an humbled child. 

So rages my tumultuous breast, 
So chafes my maniac will ; — 

Speak ! and these troubled seas shall rest, 
Speak ; and the storm is still. 



Mother ! little William lies 
Very still — his laughing eyes 
Look no more on thee and me ; 
Though I speak, he will not hear — 
What may this, dear mother, be ? 
As I gaze, I almost fear. 
Though I stroke his silken hair, 
Touch his cheek, so pale and fair, 
Though his pretty mouth I kiss, 
Yet he minds not — why is this ? 
His tiny hand will nothing hold, 
And his fingers are so cold ! 
William ! wake ! — it is not sleep, 
Surely, slumber 's not so deep. 
Pretty baby ! look at sis — 
Look at me, and wake, or L 
Shall my little playing miss ; 
Wake, or darling sis will cry. 
I cannot think what makes him so — 
You told me, mother, he must go. 
Yet he 's here, and yet he 's not 
Somehow. Has he us forgot ? 
Will he love me, then, no longer? 
Me, who took him — as I 'm stronger — 
Every day, upon my lap — 
Smoothed his frock and tied his cap — 
Played bo-peep, and made him smile, 
When you stood and laughed the while. 


"Won't he move, or shake his head, 
As he used to do in fun ? 
Won't he learn to jump and run ? 
Mother ! mother ! — is he dead! 

Yes, my daughter ! You must take 
Your last look. He will not wake. 
Never more, with cunning ways, 
Watch you in your daily plays. 
Never show the pouting lips, 
Where a mother pleasure sips.. 
Nor the sweet mouth open, so 
We may see where pearls do grow. 
He was very sick, but he 
Is from sickness ever free. 
He was weak in every limb — 
Active now as cherubim 
Is he. How he sunk in pain ! 
He will never droop again. 
Tears of anguish will not wet 
Those dark lids, where death has set 
Solemn seal; the aching breast 
Heaves no more, for all 's at rest. 
Oh, how changed from him we saw, 
When, last night, he tried to draw 
His pure breath, and each endeavor 
Seemed as if 't would spirit sever 
From the suffering body ! Now 
Calmness sits upon his brow, 
Dried is every tear that gushed, 
Every laboring sigh is hushed. 
Death and sad decay are here ! 
Beauty of the skies is here ! 


Resurrection's light is here ! 
He is here, and he is not ! 
Oh, my child ! a blessed lot 
Is our William's now above, 
Where the children sing of love, 
Casting their bright honors down, 
At His feet, the harp and crown, 
Who in heaven the diadem 
Wears — the Babe of Bethlehem ! 
Sweet the hymn, whose stately march 
Ever is around that arch 
Pealing of Redemption ! Song, 
Sweeter, louder, doth belong 
To the cherub infant throng, 
Whose sweet voices warble clear 
Music, God delights to hear. 
Come, my daughter ! leave him now ; 
We in humble prayer will bow 
At our heavenly Father's feet, 
Asking that we all may meet 
Where the infant of an hour 
Is an angel. Where each power 
Of a feeble babe may clasp 
Themes that angels cannot grasp. 
Parting is to-day in sorrow — 
Joyful meeting is to-morrow — 
With him, dearest, then to be 
Heirs of Immortality. 



Could angel choirs demand of Earth 

A theme to gratulate the throne, 
Nobler than young creation's birth, 

Sweeter than Heaven's wide vault hath known, — 
Could the redeemed lay by their palms, 

And cast their glittering honors down ; 
To take a robe of lovelier charms, 

To wear a brighter, fairer crown : 

The theme is found — 't is Charity ; 

'T is Charity, Jehovah's theme ! 
Woven the robe — eternity 

Shall brighten and reflect its beam. 
Blest is the man, whose mite is given, 

To feed God's poor — though small the boon, 
Shall his reward be lost ? — yon heaven 

With heaven's tali throne, shall sink as soon. 

Yet more exalted he, who shares 

The unwearied Teacher's holy toil, 
Who plants the seed, whose daily prayers, 

Whose midnight tears, refresh the soil ; 
And, higher shall his seat be found, 

Who makes these chosen lambs his care ; 
Richer the gems that gird him round, 

The Tear of Pity will be there. 



I stand where I have stood before, in boyhood's sunny prime, 
The same — yet not the same, but one who wears the touch 

of Time ; 
And gaze around on what was then familiar to the eye, 
But whose inconstant features tell that years have journeyed by, 

Since o'er this venerable ground a truant child I played, 

And chased the bee and plucked the flower, where ancient 
dust is laid ; 

And hearkened, in my wondering mood, when tolled the pas- 
sing bell, 

And started at the coffin's cry, as clods upon it fell. 

These mossy tombs I recollect, the same o'er which I pored, 
The same these rhymes and texts, with which my memory 

was stored ; 
These humble tokens, too, that lean, and tell where resting 

Are hidden, though their date and name have perished from 

the stones. 

How rich these precincts with the spoils of ages buried here ! 

What hearts have ached, what eyes have given this conscious 
earth the tear — 

How many friends, whose welcome cheered their now desert- 
ed doors, 

Have, since my last sojourning, swelled these melancholy 
stores ! 


c « 

( mw ) 

Yon spot, where in the sunset ray a single white stone gleams, 
I Ve visited, I cannot tell how often, in my dreams, — 
That spot o 'er which I wept, though then too young my loss 

to know, 
As I beheld my father's form sepulchred far below. 

How freshly every circumstance, though seas swept wide be- 

And years had vanished since that hour, in vagaries I 've 
seen ! 

The lifted lid — that countenance — the funeral array, 

As vividly as if the scene were but of yesterday. 

How pleasant seem the moments now, as up their shadows 

Spent in the domicil that wore the sacred name of home, — 
How in the vista years have made, they shine with mellowed 

To which meridian bliss has nought so beautiful and bright ! 

How happy were those fireside hours — how happy summer's 

When listening to my father's w^ords, or joining in the talk ; 
How passed like dreams those early hours, till down upon us 

The avalanche of grief, and laid our pleasures in the dust ! 

They tell of loss, but who can tell how thorough is the stroke 
By which the tie of sire and son in death 's forever broke ? 
They tell of Time ! — though he may heal the heart that 's 

wounded sore, 
The household bliss thus blighted, Time ! canst thou again 

restore ? 

. 15 




Yet if this spot recalls the dead, and brings from memory's 

A sentence wrote in bitterness, of raptures, bright and brief, 
I would not shun it, nor would lose the moral it will give, 
To teach me by the withered past, for better hopes to live. 

And though to warn of future woe, or whisper future bliss, 
One comes not from the spirit world, a witness unto this, 
Yet from memorials of his dust, 't is wholesome thus to learn 
And print upon our thought the state to which we must return. 

Wherever then my pilgrimage in coming days shall be, 

My frequent visions, favorite ground ! shall backward glance 

to thee ; 
The holy dead, the bygone hours, the precepts early given, 
Shall sweetly soothe and influence my homeward way to 


" And they shall see his face." — Revelation, xxii. 4. 

They tell of the region of bliss, 

And its tree of twelve manner of fruits, 

On whose leaf falls the wind's lightest kiss, 
And clearest of streams on its roots. 

They tell of the city, whose walls 

Are jasper, whose pavements are gold ; 

The splendor that lightens its halls 
Immortals may only behold. 


They tell me its gates, of one pearl, 

Shall never be folded by day ; 
His curtain night ne'er shall unfurl 

O'er its bright and its beautiful way ; — 

That those wearing raiment which flames 
With glory, — who endlessly look 

In beauty, unwrinkled, are names 

Written down in the Lamb's blessed book ; • 

That strings tremble there to the touch, 
Delicious, and thrilling, and deep ; — 

The music they utter is such 

As maketh full Happiness weep. 

They say there shall never be curse, 
For the throne of the Holy is there ; 

Once entered those portals, for us 
No longer is sin or despair. 

'T is wondrous ! — " t is great to the soul ! 

Yet the jewel that crowneth the place, 
And preciousness gives to the whole, 

My Lord ! is the smile of thy face. 


My God ! this hour doth thought invite, 
That, bird-like, would for shelter flee, 

Tired with its six days' weary flight — 
To fold its wings, and rest with Thee. 


I long to soar above the vain 

And false delights that compass me ! 

Break, Lord, the world's entangling chain, 
And set the joyful captive free. 

'T is said the time ere that which brings 

The early blush of Sabbath light, 
Is never vexed by evil things, 

Is ne'er disturbed by fiends of night ; 
So, like that hour, I fain would choose 

My soul to be — its calm delight 
So deep — that Folly must refuse 

To stay, and Sin be loth to fright. 

Sweet Evening ! whose delightful air 

Already scents of Sabbath gales, 
Refresh me ! cheer me ! and repair 

The vigor that so often fails ; 
And fit me for the morrow's toil 

In gardens where the soul inhales 
Rich fragrance, gathering flowery spoil 

On rosy hills, in lilied vales. 

If such the prospects that may pass 

Before a pilgrim here below, 
Who gazes through the shepherd's glass, 

The far celestial scenes to know — 
How glorious, waking from the dream 

Of life's delusions, care and woe, 
Must that high world of beauty seem 

Whose earthly glimpses ravish so ! 



" Go heal the sick, go raise the dead," 
The Saviour to the Seventy said ; — 
They straightway spread abroad the flame 
Of sacred Mercy, in his Name. 

Lord, we are not commissioned thus ; 

To quell disease is not for us ; 

We cannot bid insensate dust 

To rise, and tomb and cerement burst. 

But we can cheer the dwelling, where 
Is found the son of want and care ; 
And smooth the couch on which at last 
The daughter of despair is cast. 

And we may hush the orphan's fear, 
And wipe away the widow's tear ; 
Win back the wandering and undone, 
And clothe and feed the needy one. 

Thus seeking such as Thou didst know, 
Who wast companion, too, of woe ; 
Thus following paths thyself didst tread, 
Who often raised the drooping head. 

Happy — if, when the blessed stand 
In judgement at thy high right hand, 
We hear Thee say, " Whatever ye 
Have done to these, ye did to Me." 




" The day that God calls his, make not thine own 
By sports, or play, though 't is a custom grown ; 
God's day of mercy whoso doth profane, 
God's day of judgement doth for him remain." 

MS. Poetry of the Seventeenth Century. 

Jot for the Sabbath day ! 

Day of all days the best, — 
Toil, with thy thousand cares away ! 

I seek its hallowed rest. 
When virgin Earth was young, 

The Word that blest it came ; 
With trumpet's voice the mandate rung 

From Sinai's hill of flame. 

Joy for the Sabbath hours ! 

My soul, think on thy vow ; 
Lie trembling, ye tumultuous powers ! 

Tread softly, worldlings, now ! 
This Resurrection Morn 

Broke ancient Midnight's spell, 
When One of lowly woman born, 

Spoiled Death and eager Hell. 

Up, for retirement's haunt ; 

The solemn, secret place, 
Where God supplies the spirit's want 

With treasures of his "race. 


Its hushed and early hour 

Invites prevailing men ; 
The Sabbath day-break ! — Oh, there 's power 

With Him to wrestle then. 

Up, where Devotion waits, 

Where the bowed heart adores ; 
Be lifted, oh, ye temple gates ! 

Be opened, joyful doors ! 
There, at the organ's peal, 

And choir's melodious tone 
Of rising anthem, humbly kneel 

Before thy Father's throne. 

Up ! for the paschal feast, — 

The bread and wine are here ; 
Thou, whom thy heart esteems as least, 

Art welcome to the cheer. 
The bridal of the King 

And Church is held to-day ; 
Thy willing gift of gladness bring, 

And bring thy white array. 



The seal of the covenant, given, 

On your forehead, for ever will tell — 
A star in the brightness of heaven, 

Or spark in the glimmering of hell, — 
That you were in infancy laid 

A bud in its tenderest hour, 
On His bosom, who kindly has said 

That dearer is such than the flower ; 
That you the volition had here — 

A mortal cast out in your blood, 
To rise to Infinity's sphere, 

A worm, yet a daughter of God — 
Or fall to a depth of despair 

Which angels undone never knew ; 
To one of these portions you are 

Inheritor, — What will you do f 

The rainbow that rests on the cloud, 

When the tempest, all weary, would sleep, 
A sign that God never will shroud 

Earth again in the waves of the deep — 
Was not to the patriarch Noah, 

Surer test of unchangeable word, 
Than is this, that His own, evermore, 

Are safe from the wrath of the Lord ; — 
For the seal on your forehead, the love 

Of Jesus as surely doth show, 
As Mercy's, when woven above, 

Is the fading and beautiful bow. 


This fades not ! — it brightly shall be 
Immortal memento to you 

Of grace, if from peril you flee, 
Or ruin, — say, What will you do ? 


" Behold his pallid face, his heavy frown, 
And what a throng of thieves him mocking stand ! 
Come forth, ye empyrean troops ! come forth, 
Preserve this sacred blood that earth adorns, 
Gather those liquid roses off his thorns." 

Dnimmond, of Haivthornden, 1585. 

To see, my Lord, thy body thus 

In ruins, is a fearful thing ; 
And yet it bore away the curse 

From sin, and drew the Spoiler's sting. 
These fragments of thy bruised flesh 

Are sweet as breath of morning 's bloom, — 
Like eastern spices, that, afresh, 

Do, broken, yield their best perfume. 

To drink thy blood, so freely spilt, 

Methinks is awful, strange delight, — 
And yet each drop effaces guilt, 

Its currents wash my crimson white. 
As new in vintage drank, the wine 

Lies choicest on the palate, so 
This, tasted, while I press the vine, 

Doth life and joy and richness show. 


To manifest, till Thou shalt come, 

Thy dreadful death by type so frail, 
Is wondrous, — yet, till gathered home, 

The church to do it will not fail. 
While dark neglect wraps realms and kings, 

Shall live in light, years cannot dim, 
Memorials of most precious things — 

The Bread and Wine and simple Hymn ! 


He sought the Saviour's face to see, 
And climbed the sycamore, that he, 
Secure above the crowding mass, 
Might mark the wondrous Prophet pass. 

Stinted in soul, dishonest, mean, 
A publican ; worse than unclean 
Was he ; the people's common hate, 
Beyond the heathen in the gate. 

Yet he must needs that face behold, 
Of more, said Fame, than human mould ; 
And hark ! a thousand voices' hum 
Heralds his coming ! see Him come ; — 

The theme of David's chorded lyre, 
Of whom spake seers in words of fire ; 
Whom everlasting years saw shine, — 
My hope, to-day, saint, and thine ! 


He comes, in meek and lowly guise, 
Though shouts of welcome shake the skies. 
He comes ! and kingly crowns are dim 
To light unseen, that circles Him. 

In auburn locks, his parted hair 
Lies on a brow, surpassing fair ; 
His beauteous eyes are upward cast, 
Scanning his home, when trial 's past. 

Zaccheus saw the Man, the God ; — 
Yet knew not, He, who toiling trod 
With weary feet the dusty way, 
Was One whom eager worlds obey. 

He met that upward glance with fear; 
Ah, publican ! he sees thee here, 
And to the rabble's rage will give 
The wretch, they deem not fit to live. 

He sees! — but those mild eyes reveal 
Thoughts of a heart that knows to feel ; 
He hears! — but music's self is flung 
Forth in the accents of that tongue. 

" Make haste, Zaccheus ! from the tree ; 
To-day I must abide with thee." 
Abide with thee ! — his heart was broke 
For sin, and healed, as Jesus spoke. 

Fruits for repentance, straight in thought 
Conceived, sprang up, and ripe, were brought ; 
He stood, redeemed — a man new-made 
By quickening living grace, and said : 


"Behold, 0, Lord! the half of all 
My own the poor's henceforth I call ; 
If others' goods by fraud I hold, 
I now restore the law's fourfold." 

Redeemer ! has thy gospel power 
Thus sweetly, in auspicious hour, 
To win the heart, the stubborn break ? 
Such change can Love and Mercy make, 

By thy good Spirit's blessing ? — then 
Instruct me thus to plead with men ; 
Nor, with a rash, repelling frown, 
Command the sinning rebel down. 

But ever may I kindly prove 
His heart with messages of love ; 
And speak, when wanderers I accost, 
Like Thee, who came to save the lost. 

And ever ready be, as Thou, 
To woo, and win, and gently bow 
The honored lordling — foe to Thee — 
Or scorned Zaccheus in the tree. 


I cannot doubt, that Jesus met, 
In childhood, jeers and scorn ; 

Ere purple mocked him, or beset 
His regal brows the thorn. 


I cannot doubt, that Nazareth's cry 

Pursued the holy Boy, 
Ere Herod's " : men of war " did try 

The martyr to destroy. 

He walks abroad — the same, whose feet 

Pressed heaven's eternal floor, 
Ere skies were taught the earth to greet, 

Or seas to kiss the shore. 

His patient mien, his look of love, 

His eye of tempered flame, 
That showed the eagle with the dove, 

Might surely reverence claim. 

His parted hair of graceful curls, 

His innocence and youth, 
The words, that from his lips, in pearls, 

Dropped out, of precious Truth — 

Might teach, methinks, those rabble-boys 

To bless the ground he trod ; 
Yes ! join in one, each eager voice, 

To shout a present God. 

They worship not — nor know that He, 

Who in their midst is seen, 
Is One, the Chaldean quaked to see 

His darting fires between. 

Nor deem they that the " Fourth," in form, 

AVho trod that furnace then, 
Is here to quell a hotter storm, 

That 's kindled up for men. 



And so they mock him, flout him, vex 

Themselves, to vex his soul ; 
In vain — they cannot him perplex, 

Who can himself control. 

How often, Saviour, in thy walk, 

Thou 'st met with sinful me ; 
Thy look was love ; all love thy talk ; 

And yet I knew not Thee. 

My heart misgives me, that with scorn 

I used the heavenly Guest ; — 
Break, break, my heart ! the pride be shorn, 

That rises in my breast. 

Yet, as I could not vex thy peace, 
Though sore thy grace I grieved — 

0, bid this warring tumult cease, 
As when I first believed. 

Unchain these faculties, that lie 

Imprisoned thus in sense ; 
And bid the fogs, that blind me, fly 

With sin for ever hence. 

And lift my spirit, that inclines 
Thus earthward, to thy throne ; — 

Undazzled by deceitful shrines, 
To bend to Thee alone. 




Right glad was I, when round me 

I heard sweet voices say, 
" Come ! worship ! " — for they found me 

All ready for the Day ; 
The Day of truer pleasure, 

Than thousands spent in sin ; 
The Day of richer treasure, 

Than worlds of wealth could win. 

Right glad was I, when pealing 

O'er flowery hill and glen, 
Came call of bells, revealing 

Repose for weary men ; 
Their joyful music telling, 

In soothing Sabbath talk, 
That Mind, Earth's care dispelling, 

With Heaven, to-day, may walk. 

In haste thine house I entered, 

Its beauty whispered, " Come I " 
I lowly knelt where centred 

Of all my hopes the sum. 
Cool, clear, and living waters 

In streams came flowing by ; 
Bread for earth's sons and daughters 

Was there in full supply. 


More happy in a corner 

Of these thy courts to be, 
Than yonder sceptred scorner, 

Who claims the servile knee ; 
Thy doors attend, I 'd rather, — 

Thy child would love it well, - 
Than in the tents, my Father ! 

Of wickedness to dwell. 

To my fond heart how proudly 

Goes up that noble song, 
When David's anthem loudly 

Repeats the earnest throng ! 
When notes of solemn sadness 

Confessions make to heaven ; 
When chords are swept to gladness, 

And public praise is given. 

Those truths — my heart believes them, 

As coming from my God ; 
Those truths — my heart receives them, 

As sealed with Jesus' blood ; 
Now, the transporting tidings, 

My soul leaps up to hear ; 
Now, salutary chidings 

Impart becoming fear. 

I love the Day, if o'er me 
The sky in tempest lowers ; 

My God is light before me, 
And cloudless are my hours ; 


I love it, if iu splendor 

The azure arch is dressed ; 
My God, what shall I render 

For this bright Day of Rest ! 

I love the Day, assisted 

By health to spend it well ; 
Besetting sin resisted, 

And weakened folly's spell ; 
That strength and vigor gladly 

I consecrate to God, 
And mourn young Health so sadly 

In thoughtless ways has trod. 

And if pale Sickness seizes 

This frame, I love the day ; 
Thy messengers, Diseases, 

Will not forbid to pray. 
My chamber is an altar, 

My heart to sing is free ; 
Its praises, though they falter, 

Are heard, my God, by Thee. 

I '11 love the Day, when dying ; 

How blest the Sabbath time, 
In Death's embraces lying, 

To hear the Sabbath chime ! 
On Him, who Death is routing, 

In quivering prayer to call, 
To Him, who 's Victor, shouting, 

And in his arms to fall ! 



tell me not that Zion, 

All pearls and gems, sits queen ; 
That splendor's where the Lion 

Of Judah's tribe is seen ; 
But tell me yon broad heaven 

A Temple is to view ; 
Its Day, one Sabbath given, — 

And I will worship too ! 


Niagara ! — the poetry of God ! 
Whose numbers tell, in everlasting hymn, 
Only of God ! The morning stars that woke 
Music along their courses, early caught 
Its far-off echoes, and in wild delight 
Eeturned them, softened, round the universe. 
Think not, think not, Earth's triflers ! that for you 
And garish Day, these melodies chime on. 
When ye, diminished, lost, are known not, Night, 
Night to the awful anthem ever hearkens, 
And ever with new joy. Oh, how sublime 
The symphony, that, under the expanse 
Of stars, peals on in unexhausted power; 
Niagara ! — and the sole listener, Night ! 



"Who shall, with blessing, lift abroad 

His hand unto thy holy hill, — 
Be shepherd of thy chosen, Lord, 

And show these worshipers thy will ? 

He that uprightly walks, and works 
With single purpose, righteousness — 

In whose heart, look, or language, lurks 
Nor folly, pride, nor wickedness : 

He, nor presuming, rash, nor vain, 

Yet strong, because he always fears ; — 

He, that repulsed, will urge again 

For God, and warn and win with tears : 

He that will keep, with toil unpriced, 

His skirts from blood, and souls from loss, 

He that will nothing know save Christ, 
And the sweet science of the Cross : 

Gently, along this pleasant way, 
The aged of the flock shall lead; 

And. lest the little lambs should stray, 
Will them by fountains guide and feed. 

When the Chief Shepherd shall appear, 

He shall appear in glory, too ; 
And of his charge, watched over here, 

Show thousands, brought in safety through. 




" The thought of a heaven of holiness is my solace." — James Brainerd 

Sweet Heaven ! to know thee holy, 

Were dearer to my soul, 
Than sight of all the glory 

Whose seas about thee roll. 
The floods of splendor, streaming 

From ecstacies of light, 
To purity there beaming, 

My God, were only night ! 

Sweet Heaven ! the song of gladness 

That thrills the upper air, 
To me were note of sadness, 

If " Holy " were not there. 
No more to bright harps given 

On holiness to dwell — 
Its bliss would fly, and heaven 

Be but a better hell. 

Sweet Heaven ! where saints are singing, 

Where angels join the lay, 
To thee I would be winging 

My upward, homeward way; — 
Where crystal walls forever 

Show holiness within, 
Where golden gates ope never 

To sorrow, death, or sin ! 



I "m glad that at length the materials appearing, 

Prepared for the builder, and piled in our street, 
Proclaim that the pious, unwearied, are rearing 

A dome where the sons of the pilgrims may meet ; 
A place where the cares that the week sets in motion, 

The bustle of business, the world and its dreams, 
May fade in the nobler pursuits of devotion, 

When the Sabbath of rest Heaven's antepast seems. 

I 'm glad, that with hallowed monition, a spire 

Will rise from these precincts, and touchingly tell 
That here men may come and learn destinies higher 

Than earth's, at the call of the " church-going bell." 
That here is appointed the ark's holy station ; 

And down to posterity, still on this ground 
Made sacred alone by the Dove's consecration, 

Will manna at morning and evening be found. 

I 'm glad, for the bliss that in boyhood I tasted, 

I hope in this edifice yet to renew ; 
When up to the meeting-house duly I hasted, 

And sat with the rest in the family pew ; 
And listened with reverence, and made my endeavor 

To fasten on memory the chapter and text ; 
And watched the good minister, though I could never 

The argument scan that my reason perplexed. 

I 'm glad, for remembrance yet lingers around him, 
The man of three-score, whom sincerely I thought 

Unrivalled ; — the ties to his people that bound him, 
I knew nor by meanness nor flattery were bought. 



And years as they passed more his goodness revealing, 
Endeared him yet more to the hearts he had won ; 

Refreshing e'en now to the soul's languid feeling, 
Are thoughts of that warrior whose conflict is done ! 

I 'm glad, for though he has his pilgrimage ended, 

And many about him in vigor and bloom, 
And most of the aged, with him have descended 

To final repose, and are lodged in the tomb — 
I love to think of them; the soothing reflection 

Of days long departed, to me has no dread ; 
'T is sweet to retrace them, nor is there dejection 

In thoughts of old scenes, old delights, and the dead. 

And proudly a son of New England will cherish 

The customs that absence but serves to endear ; 
He may measure earth's kingdoms, but never shall perish 

The smile of his childhood, or infancy's tear ! 
And, therefore, I 'm glad that my fond recollection 

May here be excited to look on the past ; 
This house, with its ritual, will call up affection 

For much that was pleasant — too pleasant to last ! 

I 'm glad, for I know that the heart of the ranger 

These walls will remind of the home of his love, 
As here in his worship he joins with the stranger, 

In the way of his fathers, now gathered above. 
And here the sojourner, with sweeter emotion, 

Will take of the hope that Religion inspires, 
As mingles unchecked in the tide of devotion, 

A spiritual thought of the land of his sires. 

I 'm glad, for unvexed, by disquiet that 's reigning 
So sadly, where strife, most of all, ought to cease, 

( 191 ) 

Here a church may be banded, intent upon gaining 
Recruits to the flag of the Captain of Peace. 

And ever may concord, the bond of the Spirit, 
In one join its members, thus truly to live ; 

As sons and as daughters, each bosom inherit 

The peace, passing knowledge, He only can give ! 

I 'm glad, for I hope that to ages will flourish 

Within this enclosure, the plants of the Lord ; 
And grace from his treasury like showers will nourish 

The trees that are full of the sap of the word. 
And here would I hope that the principles tested 

So long in old Plymouth — so fitted to mock 
The assaultings of error — may thrive unmolested, 

Our pride, too, as theirs, who first stepped on the Rock ! 

I 'm glad, for a watchman they Ve called to this tower, 

From the shrine of the Stoddards and Edwards he came, 
Whose message already gives token of power, 

Whose zeal is of pure evangelical flame. 
And long may this lamp of the fresh oil be lighted, 

Fed richly by unction that cometh from high — 
And burn on the pathway, where thousands, benighted, 

Shall gaze, and in penitence turn to the sky. 

I 'm glad, then, at length the materials appearing, 

Prepared for the builder, and piled in our street, 
Proclaim that the pious, unwearied, are rearing 

A dome where the sons of the pilgrims may meet. 
Oh ! Thou who hast laid, to the shame of the scorner, 

In Zion, foundations — who only art skilled 
To plan thine own glory — the Keystone and Corner, 

To Thee, blessed Trinity ! only they build. 



" His life hath flowed, 
A sacred stream, 
In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure 
Alone are mirrored ; which, though shapes of ill 
Slay hover round its surface, glides in light, 
And takes no shadow from them." — Ion. 

Such is the Good ! — Go, thou, survey the Good, 

Not in his holiday of hopes and joys, 

But when life's task is done. Look at that life ! 

Yes, scrutinize its doings. Lo, the long 

And chequered scroll, though blotted here and there 

With human frailty, shows no dastard deed 

Of meanness, cruelty, dishonoring wrong, 

Or aught, that in the sight of angels, men, 

Or God, shall make him hang his head in shame. 

True, he has wandered — who has not ? — yet he 

Back, like a child, repenting, has returned, 

And sought and found forgiveness. Oh, how warm 

Were love's strong gushings to his Father, then, 

And gratitude, and sorrow for his fault, 

While, like a swelling river, joy and grief 

Rose in his bosom, and found sweet relief 

In sacred tears ! 

Evenly has he trod 
Life's devious way ; the friend of honest worth, 
Though clad in poverty. His step I 've seen 
Directed often to the low abode 
Of such ; 't was his with kindly hand to dry 
The trickling sorrows of the fatherless ; 



And he would cause the widow's heart aloud 
To sing for joy. The servant of his God, — 
Not vaunting of his deeds, but trusting Him 
Who once trod Calvary, — he journeyed on 
The time appointed, and at last laid down, 
Serenely, at his Master's call, and died. 


" And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth- 
peor." — Deut. xxxiv. 6. 

To gorgeous burial goes the monarch, 

With scarf, and mute, and nodding plume, — 

The glitter, that flashed o'er his cradle, 
Settles around his costly tomb. 

To burial, with a grievous mourning, 
The starred and laureled hero goes ; 

And muffled drum and solemn trumpet 
Ring out a stricken nation's woes. 

And brows of wisdom are uncovered, 
And hoary heads in grief are bent, 

When he to senseless clay is gathered, 
Whose spirit searched the firmament ; 

And trod the fields, thick sown with planets, 
And traced out Nature's secret laws ; 

And followed, in their mighty courses, 

Suns, stars, and worlds, to their First Cause. 



With simple rite, the village maiden — 
Cut down like some sweet flower at eve — 

In all her loveliness is buried, 

And rifled hearts are left to grieve. 

To earth the little casket 's given, 
That lately held a precious gem ; 

Oh, mother ! wast thou wholly willing 
To yield it for God's diadem ? 

There 's hollow woe, there 's genuine feeling, 
When dust is given back to dust ; 

Some are resigned by sweet Religion ; 
Some acquiesce, because they must. 

Yet of the burials Time has witnessed, 

None in simplicity may vie, 
None in their state with that of Moses, 

Who went up Nebo's top to die. 

What lofty obsequies were rendered 

That hour when Darkness held the pall ! 

What pomp, where stood, in clouds pavilioned, 
The silent, present, Lord of All ! 

How blest the man whose dust Jehovah 
Hid in a grave that 's yet untrod ! 

Thrice blessed he, that soul most happy, 
Whose life is hid with Christ in God ! 



Dis coursers on the vocal string, 
And viol-chords of solemn cheer, — 

Without the Spirit's offering 

What do ye, dulcet triflers, here ? 

Deem ye severest art and skill 

To chime the song with due accord, 

And wake the organ's voice at will, 
To soft or deep, will please the Lord ? 

Exact may be the leader's taste, 
And faultless, execution's touch, 

And yet on air the tones may waste, 
And yet the heart be steeled by such. 

Unlike the strains that sweetly rose 
And swelled along the Syrian sky, 

Whose theme was end to mortal woes, 
Whose burden was a Saviour nigh. 

Unlike Redemption's hymns, which they 
Who touch the thunder-harps above, 

In humble awe and reverence play — 
The humfller for their earnest love. 

If praise for science be your aim, 
Ye only will secure His frown, 

Who, jealous for His holy Name, 
With Music will not share the crown. 


He hates such harmony — its breath 
Of mellow flutes, or trumpets' blast, 

Is but the sullen wail of death, 

When life and soul of song are past. 


Know ye the earth, on which ye tread, 
Is a pleasant garden, merrily spread 
With fruits of the best, with earliest flowers, 
Dimpled with dells and decked with bowers, — 
That the saint, nigh to faint, may rest him there, 
And the heart may part with its griefs in prayer ; 
And taste those draughts of the ravishing love 
That flows in the bosoms of the blest above ? 

Know ye the earth, so pleasant to-day, 
Will pass, with its fruits and flowers, away ? 
That its best and earliest show in their bloom 
The blight of death, and decay of the tomb, — 
And the light so bright to the dazzled eye, 
Which gleams and streams on its morning sky, 
Will fade as the cloud that twilight sees 
Melt from the heavens with ev«ring's breeze — 
And the peace that the pilgrim sought to know, 
He learns, in his sorrow, is not below ? 

Know ye there remaineth a Heavenly Rest 
For the weary one, and the care -oppressed — 


That ye need not seek it on earth abroad, 
'T is barren of bliss for the sons of God, — 
That the saint will faint in its path of care, 
And sigh and die, who rests him there ; 

That above, in bowers 

"Where the deathless flowers 

Of holiness bloom, 

No blight of the tomb 
Can come, — where sparkling rivers of bliss 
Murmur on, as the margins of beauty they kiss ? 


They 'ye reared the organ. He,* whose fond desire 

It was to beautify this hoary pile, 

Whose pleasant voice once lingered in its aisle, 

Is absent from the service. Lo, this spire, 

Antique and venerable, looketh down, 

As for a century it hath, upon our town ; 

The doors are open still ; along these walls 

Swells noble minstrelsy ; but now no calls 

Of love, persuasive, from his lips shall come — 

The pastor that hath wooed for Christ is dumb. 

Dumb ? No ! his song is where ten thousand times 

Ten thousand bow ; where the melodious chimes 

Sound, as abroad the heaven of heavens they roll — 

The Diapason of the ransomed soul ! 

* The late Rev. J. W. James, Rector of Christ Church. 





Hast thou never seen, 

When the orb of day 
Lightens with his sheen 

Dark Niagara, 
How his glories act 

On the foam, and show, 
O'er the cataract, 

Heaven's beauteous bow ? 
She, who lately plumed for flight, seeking rest above, 
Saw thus over Jordan's tide, arched, the bow of Love. 

Hath, at eve, thine eye 

Watched the little billow 
Rise and gleam and die, 

On Atlantic's pillow — 
When it seemed to thee 

Sighing into rest, 
Melting peacefully 
Into ocean's breast ? 
She, as kindly in repose, sighed away her breath, 
Peacefully and gently thus, blended into death. 

Saw'st thou, when, in light, 

Sabbath glories rose ? 
She, a Sabbath, bright, 

Saw, yet not like those. 



Longed she then to go, 

Rest above, to spend ? 
Yes ! begun below, 

Rest that ne'er shall end. 
Voices heard she, loved ones saw, sweetly from the sky 
Beckoning to their holy home, wooing her to die. 

In the final hour, 

In the hour of doom, 
When disease hath power, 

When appears the tomb — 
Where 's the Sovereign Arm, 

Strong and sure to save ? 
What can chase alarm ? 
What adorn the grave ? 
She could answer, He was there, well, the sufferer knew, 
He that through the grave had passed, strong to bear her 

When Niagara 

Lifts his bow no more, 
When have fled away 

Ocean and the shore, — 
She shall live again, 

Where the mortal sigh 
Heaves not, and where pain, 

Yes ! and Death shall die. 
She, a child, a seraph now, leans on Jesus' breast, 
Oh, for wings ! that we might be, sweet one ! thus at rest 



How shall I cherish the desire 
That often kindles in my breast, 

distant God ! to draw yet nigher 
Thy seat of holiness and rest ? 

1 long to loose the hold that clings 

To earth, the chain that binds to sin ; 
When will my spirit plume her wings, 
Soar to thy love, and enter in ? 

When will she cease to quench her thirst 
In streams that mock her with their shine ; 

And drink of cool, sweet wells that burst 
Sparkling and true from founts divine ? 

When cease, a prodigal, to feed 

On husks that far from home are found ; 

And gather, for her daily need, 

Manna, that whitens all the ground ? 

I loath this fond, uncertain grief; 

Abhor these evanescent tears ; 
This faith, that is not firm belief; 

These weary doubts, these fitful fears. 

I hate this changeful flight of prayer ; 

Now on the mount, and now below ; 
Now building tabernacles there ; 

Now groveling here, in listless woe. 

Consistent, fixed, unwavering, true — 

I long, I pant, I cry to be ; 
Creator ! thine own work renew, 

And bid it to resemble Thee, 



11 1 am the Root and the Offspring of David, and the Bright and Morning 
Star." — Revelation, xxii. 16. 

Benighted on the troublous main, 

While stormy terrors clothe the sky, 
The trembling voyager strives in vain, 

And nought but stern despair is nigh ; 
When lo ! a gem of peerless light, 

With radiant splendor, shines afar ; 
And through the clouds of darkest night, 

Appears the Bright and Morning Star ! 

With joy he greets the cheering ray, 

That beams on Ocean's weary breast ; 
Precursor of a smiling day, 

It lulls his fears to peaceful rest ; 
No more in peril shall he roam, 

For night and danger now are far ; 
With steady helm he enters home, 

His guide the Bright and Morning Star ! 

Thus, when affliction's billows roll, 

And waves of sorrow and of sin 
Beset the fearful, weeping soul, 

And all is dark and drear within — 
'T is Jesus, whispering strains of peace, 

Drives every doubt and fear afar; 
He bids the raging tempest cease, 

And shines the Bright and Morning Star ! 



I hailed thy launching forth to life, 
And gazed on thee with busy joy ; 

Nor dreamed I of the frequent strife 
Thou 'dst meet upon that sea, my Boy ! 

Slender vessel on the deep, 

Where the angry tempests sweep. 

I lingered at thy pouting mouth, 
How often ! for the parent's bliss ; 

And cared not for the fragrant South, 
When taking thence the balmy kiss ; — 

Talk of pleasure ! — boasting Earth 

Yields none of a purer birth. 

I watched thy growth, and sometimes fears 
And sometimes precious hopes I had; 

These last prevailed, as, swiftly, years 
Revealed to me the comely lad. 

Health and beauty on his brow — 

Pride ! thou 'rt busy with me now. 

Yet I confess those raptures fade, 

Their very recollections die, 
Compared with bliss that 's on me laid, 

That crowns my cup, to-day, as I 
See thee thus in early bloom, 
Vows, that bind to God, assume. 



To cause such joy there 's something more 
Than Childhood's graces can impart, 

And not from earth is delved the store 

With which Heaven fills the parent's heart, 

When, subdued by love, his son 

Is to meek Religion won. 


Lord my God ! I would not seek 
Those glances that the guilty shun, 

Only that thou hast said, the weak 
Have fellowship with Christ, thy Son. 

And though earth's proud ones may not meet 
Acceptance where thy chosen pray, — 

In helplessness, before thy feet, 
Where angels kneel, a father may. 

He comes to thee in confidence, 
A pleader for his offspring now ; 

Thou 'It hear ! for in Judea once 
The robe of Childhood worest Thou. 

And only thou didst give these ties, 

Pure kindlings — this dark world to cheer ; 

To whom, then, should a father's cries 
Be gathered, save unto thine ear? 

Thine ear ! — that hears the lowest sigh 
Breathed from this night of sighs, as soon 

As trumpet tones that ring on high 
The joys of thy eternal noon. 


I know what hope's revealings are, 
And faith her vision lends to me, 

When, with the giant arm of prayer, 
I lift my child, O Lord, to Thee. 

Thou 'It hear ! — and jet what form of speech 

Shall all a father's heart reveal, 
"When every pulse the throne would reach, 

When in my agony I kneel, 

And ask that He who stills the wave, 
Who touches, and in wrath 't is curled, 

Will save him who goes forth to brave 
The deeps of an unquiet world ! 

Thou, who didst mould his perfect form, 
And round it bid the life-blood roll, 

And, kindling blushes pure and warm, 
Informed it with a conscious soul, — 

Who else but Thee can cause to run 

In holy ways, his faltering feet ; 
And fling around that trusting one, 

The Arm that back the storm shall beat ? 

But Thee, to whom I gave him, when 
Baptismal waters bathed his brow ? 

Thy promise calmed my spirit then ; 
Eenew it, for I yield him now. 




Thou Unseen, Almighty God ! 

That rulest in power alone ; 
Afflicted by thy righteous rod, 

We come before the throne. 

And thou wilt never bid " depart " — 
When our frail offerings rise ; 

For Thou hast said, the broken heart 
Is our best sacrifice. 

With earnest tears, we intercede 

For thy paternal care ; 
And, self-abased, do humbly plead 

In penitential prayer. 

Our city weeps in lowly dust, 

Bowed by the hand Divine ; 
And still she owns thy dealings just, 

For judgement, Lord, is thine. 

Yet while Thou ridest in frowning mien, 
And holdest the balance true, 

God ! while thy dread scourge is seen, 
Let Pity triumph too. 

Though justice is thy diadem, 

And wrath is thine alone, 
Yet Mercy shines, the brightest gem 

Around thy glorious throne. 




I saw thee faint, the hour when came 
The arrow, with unerring aim, 
To pierce thy first-born ; yet thy God 
I knew could heal, though sharp the rod. 
And now, when scarcely fourteen days 
Have passed, the second arrow slays 
The last survivor, and the tomb 
Again has sunlight on its gloom, 
To show where with the newly dead 
Another child may lay its head. 

Thrice has such message at my door, 
In by-gone days, been told. Ay, more 
Than this — four precious ones, that blest 
My heart and home, are now at rest. 
I know what 't is, long nights to watch 
The helpless sufferer, and to notch 
Each hour on Sorrow's tablet. Yes, 
To take the last pure breath, and kiss 
Away Death's damp from lip and brow. 
To meet all this, and meekly bow, 
All this, and own His " will be done," 
Is victory — yet it may be won. 

Weep freely — Nature asks the tear — 
Weep, as keen memory brings so near 
The thousand nameless, witching charms 
Of those that lately filled your arms. 



"Weep, as flit by the hopes that played 

On life's horizon, when, arrayed 

In rainbow tints, thou sawest the bow 

Of promise for thy loved ones glow. 

Yet weep resignedly ; each grace 

Is clustered in a glorious place. 

Yes, weep with joy ! those cherubs shine 

Where all is real, all divine. 


Sung at the Two Hundred and Tenth Anniversary of the First Congre- 
gational Church in Charlestown, Mass., Nov. 13, 1S42. 

God of our fathers ! while our ears 

Shall hear the chronicles of old — 
Thy wondrous deeds in ancient years, 

Which sires unto their sons have told ; — 

While our eyes see in History's glass 

The red man of unconquered will, 
And the pale patient pilgrim pass, 

Where once he dwelt, along this hill ; — 

While we review the way they trod 

Of woe, and want, and war's grim curse, — 

Afflictions met for love of God, 

Privations borne, in faith, for us ; — 

May we their spirit catch, and give 
Ourselves, anew, to Truth and Thee ; 

And like those worthies, dare to live 
Freemen in Christ — the only Free! 



"Father! I call on thee! 
Clouds of the cannon smoke around me are wreathing ; 
Guider of battles, I call on Thee ! " 

Korner's Prayer during Fight, 

It may be that the weal of nations 

Their honor scorned or questioned right 

Kequire, indeed, no lesser umpire 
To arbitrate, than ruthless fight. 

It may be that the ringing trumpet, 
And piercing fife, and sullen drum, 

And garments rolled in blood, and murmurs, 
Discordant, of the battle's hum ; — 

Shrieks of the wounded and the dying, 
The wreck of limb and waste of life, 

The fury of devouring carnage, 

And all the circumstance of strife ; — 

Are necessary to the order 

And comfort of this world of ours, 

Which has no sweet without a bitter, 
Nor without thorns possesses flowers. 

And yet when brothers murder brothers, 
To ask God's blessing on the deed, 

And crave his grace where cruel Slaughter 
Leaves widowed hearts behind to bleed, 

Is urging far the holy mockery, — 

Is acting farce to Mercy's view ; 
I may be wrong, for Honor 's something, — 

Man on a death-bed ! what think you ? 

( 209) 


He sought Moriah's walls, 

That heaved to heaven in pride ; 

The Temple, like whose glorious halls, 
The world had nought beside. 

He entered — 't was His own ; 

Of nations called the house of prayer ; 
But money-changers filled his throne, 

And Traffic's foot was there. 

Woke, at his watchful nod, 

Thunders for the offence ? 
No — with a word the Son of God 

Cast the defilers thence : 

The merchant from his courts, 

The doves, the changers, and their gold ; 
And silenced the confused reports 

Of men that bought and sold. 

Thus near the Saviour drew 

The temple of the Holy Ghost — 

My heart, that sheltered, still untrue, 
Folly's tumultuous host. 

The Master's once it was, 

But others had possession found ; 

And where He should have given laws, 
His enemy was crowned. 


( 210 ) 

With a reproving frown, 

To see his altar dimmed by sin, — 
The gates of beauty broken down, 

The world come trooping in, — 

He, with a scourge of cords, 

Drove every idol thence. 
'T was sharp, — yet kind ; my gracious Lord's 

This temple has been since. 


Arise, Lord ! look kindly on the deep 

Dark waters, which thy mighty hand outflung ; 

Whose wondrous, awful beauty bards have sung 

And still exhausted not While thy winds sweep 

Their moaning surface, and the billows leap 

Up to the heavens ; when the storm's knell is rung, 

And every wave, tumultuous, hath a tongue 

Telling of God, who doth its fury keep 

And who doth give it bridle — 0, look down 

In pity on that far-off widow's joy — 

Her only hope, her comfort ! Do not frown 

Upon her prayer at this rough midnight hour ; 

But speak ! and spoil the dreadful tempest's power, 

And spare to her lone love her Sailor Boy ! 



" And about the fourth watch of the night he cometh unto them walking 
upon the sea." — Mark, vi. 48. 

Tiberias battles with the storm ; 

And hark ! its waters cry 
To sweeping winds, that answer give 

From out the troubled sky. 

And lo ! upon its raving tide, 

How awfully serene 
He walks, who, in the furnace, once, 

Unscathed, the " Fourth " was seen. 

He walks the waves ! the rebel waves 

In deep submission lie ; 
The wild winds hear his tread, and cease, 

When Jesus passes by. 

And in my spirit lurks a storm ; 

Here chafes the angry sea ; 
And wild winds here lift up their voice, 

And rage continually. 

Rebuke these waves, Redeemer ! they 

Shall slumber at thy call ; 
Oh, move amid these winds, — the winds 

Shall at thy presence fall ! 



Will he never return? — will the Jew- 
In exile, eternally pine ? 

By the multitude scorned, pitied only by few, 

Will he never his vows to Jehovah renew 
Beneath his own olive and vine ? 

Will the wrath of the Lord to him burn 

For aye, who the Nazarene vexed ? 
Will not the Lord's slayer in penitence learn, 
And the nailer, and spearman, and mocker return, 

For the crime deeply stirred and perplexed ? 

Will he dwell with the Gentiles, who slight 

His shrine, and make traffic their god ? 
Slink in alleys and avenues, where the dark rite 
Of London is offered to Gold, day and night — 

Whose fathers Jerusalem trod ? 

Will he yield up his treasures of wealth 

On the rack, at the gibbet and stake ? 
Shall his wife, daughters, sons, shall his ease and his health, 
Ay, and life, be cut off, or enjoyed but in stealth? 

Shall he not from such tyranny break ? 

Will he crouch to Mohammed's control, 

In suburbs, pent up like a thief? 
And drink of contempt, and reproachings, the bowl, 
Who of chivalry once, and of honor, was soul, 

Whose nation of nations was chief? 



Shall bis oil and bis wine ne'er be reapt ? 

Sball bis harp hang by Babylon's tide — 
Whose music of sweetness for ages hath slept, 
O'er whose strings hath no finger of cheerfulness swept, 

In songs of debverance and pride ? 

Shall he ne'er at the festival's sheen, 

The new moon, or Sabbath attend ? 
Where Zion in beauty and glory was seen, 
When shoutings went up — trumpets calling between — 

While praises were wont to ascend ? 

Where the censer gave richest perfume, 

Where the Holy of Holies had place, 
Where the almond of Aaron was laid up in bloom, 
Where the Ark of the Covenant had resting and room, 

Where Shechinah gave token of grace ? 

Zion ! name that brings freshly the sigh ; 

Zion ! name at which tears freely fall ; 
Where the mosque of the prophet peers proudly and high, 
The Muezzin at noon gives idolatrous cry, 

Where Allah is worshipped of all ! 

'T is the Zion, oh, God ! which thy arm 

Still embraces, for her thou hast set 
Most safe in thy love, deeply graved on thy palm, 
Secure from defilement, and terror, and harm, 

Her bulwarks before thee are yet. 

And thy oath ! — 't was to Abraham given ! 

Thy servant, devoted to thee — 
As the sands on the shore, as the leaves by winds driven, 
As the planets that spangle the Syrian heaven, 

So his children in number shall be ! 


Like kings on their conquering car, 

They return ! for their bondage is burst ; — 
" My sons shall be gathered, my daughters from far ; 
To bear them where shines Jacob's beautiful Star, 
Lo, Tarshish with ships shall be first ! " 

I see them ! I see them ! behold ! 

Every stream, sea and ocean is white, 
Where their canvass points home, where their standard's 

broad fold 
Waves on to the East, as it waved once of old, 

When the Ark moved, enveloped in light ! 

I see them ! how wondrous the crowd ! 

From Ganges, from Humber, from Nile, — 
As doves to their windows, they fly as a cloud ; 
How roll their hosannas ! how lordly and loud 

Horn and timbrel give answer the while ! 

Be lifted, ye gates ! for 't is He 

Once led by the rabble to die, 
Once spit on, and thorn-crowned, and hung on a tree, 
Now worshipped, anointed, exalted to be 

A Prince and a Saviour on high. 

Who is He that of glory is King ? 

To whom shall be lifted the gates ? 
Shout, thousands of Israel ! ye worshippers, bring 
Oblations ! Let earth with her jubilee ring! 

The crown for the Nazarene waits ! 

Then, Christian, reproaches and stain 

No longer give thou to the Jew ; 
For, gathered in gladness to Zion again, 
He will own that Messiah, appointed to reign, 

Has come, — the Great Witness and True. 



" Were there nothing else 
For which to praise the heavens but only Love, 
Then only Love were cause enough for praise." 

Alfred Tennyson. 

True it is, oh, weary toiler 

In a path where pitfalls be, 
And where lies in wait the spoiler — 

True it is, for thee and me, 
In the path that leads above, 
Walketh with us watchful Love. 

True it is, that bid to tarry — 

Christian — on thy couch of pain, 

Though we may not to thee carry 
Hope of health and ease again — 

This, thy trial-way above, 

Smoothed and guarded is by Love. 

True it is, oh, weeping mother, 

At the coffin of thy boy, 
Thou hast anguish that another 

Knoweth not, and thou hast joy 
Which the unstricken may not prove, 
For the blow is dealt by Love. 

True it is, oh, sinner, broken 

As thy heart is, on the wheel 
Of Remorse, that Mercy's token 

Lifted is to those who feel. 
See it ! where the healing Dove 
Flutters o'er the Cross in Love. 


True it is, perplexed and troubled, 
Thou on life's uncertain tide ; 

All thy sorrows more than doubled, 
By those dear ones at thy side ; 

That these stormy waters move 

Only at the word of Love. 

True it is, each billow 's bidden 

Only thus in wrath to go, 
And the raging deep is chidden 

In its fearful overflow. 
Were there nothing Praise to move 
But such Love, there 's cause in Love. 


" Behold what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that 
we should be called the sons of God." — 1 John, iii. 1. 

" So astonishing did this seem, when one of the Malabrian converts was 
required by the Danish missionaries thus to translate this passage, that he 
shrunk from it, as far too bold. * Let me rather render it,' said he, * They 
shall be permitted to kiss his feet.' " — Notes to Cottage Bible, 


And who are they that wear such name, 
By whom* your starry courts are trod ; 

Above yon ministers of flame, 
And known as Sons of God ? 




Whose forms seem like to men below, 

Whose anthems, sweeter than the rest, 
Speak of some sad, mysterious woe, 

Deliverance and rest ; — 
Who touch with warmer thrill the string 

Of warbling harps, and to their lyres 
Unwonted love and gladness bring, 

And far intenser fires : — 
Oh, who are they, whose lofty song 

To hear, your hosts delay their own, — 
That humblest bow of all your throng, 

And nearest to the throne ? 


These are from unknown tongues and climes, 

And this their song of sweet degrees ; 
Hark ! through wide heaven, as one, its chimes 

Peal, like the sound of seas. 
And their rich music truly tells 

That each, whose feet with joy is shod, 
Once lost, now found, for ever dwells, 

The reconciled with God. 
From deepest depths of miry sin, 

Pollution, and the dreadful curse, 
Raised, and adorned without, within, 

On thrones commanding us — 
They sing of chastisement and grace ; 

And we, who never knew the rod, 
Gaze not on the Redeemer's face, 

As gaze these Sons of God ! 




Let me live till I am old ! 

Death, though still in manhood's prime, 
I would meet, as meets the bold, 

Yet I fain would " 'bide my time." 
What are threescore years and ten ? 

Scarcely span enough to kiss 
Tears from off Life's blessings : then 

Let me gather all Life's bliss. 
'T is a little leaf, at best, 

"Which for ever I may spell 

Of Life's doings, ill or well, — 
When among the stars I rest, 
Measured by its sands of gold, 

When eternal day I tell. 
Let me live till I am old ! 

No ! Religion quickly cries ; 

Life hath thorns as well as roses. 

Death the earlier glimpse discloses, 
Unto him that early dies, 
Of the peaceful paradise, 
Where sufficeth thought to dwell — 
Pausing 'mid that thunder song — 
On the path, or brief or long — 

Trod with joy, in sorrow trod, 

Meeting pleasure or the rod ; 
'T is the same. In heaven 't is well, 

If on earth we walked with God. 



Buried once, the sleeping dust, 
Let not changes, let not lust 
Of reward, tempt hirelings, rude, 
To disturb its solitude, 
In its coffin, in the clay, 
Hidden from the gaze of day, — 
Where upon the mouldering mass 
Groweth the luxuriant grass, 
Where the spotted grave-cloth cleaveth 
To the bosom that ne'er heaveth ; 
Where the snail his slimy trace 
Leaves on the unshrinking face ; 
Where, with sad corruption, pride 
Lieth, nestling, side by side, 
Saying to it, Hail, my mother ! 
To the worm, My sister ! brother ! — 
Where the schemes and hopes of man 
Are within a little span ; 
Where forgot are love and hate ; 
Where the beggar finds his mate 
Li the prince, and beauty sleeps — 
Where the sluggish vapor creeps 
Round her with unwholesome chill ; 
Where the weary takes his fill 
Of unbroken dreamless rest, 
With the clod upon his breast ; 
Where the sons of Adam lie 
Sleeping — till the melted sky 


Mingles with the deep, and earth 
Yields them once again to birth, 
Ready — past Death's night away — 
For the final judgment day. 
Till then — undisturbed be 
All that is mortality. 
Till then, Avarice ! spare the grave. 
Till then, look not on the slave 
Shrouded here, ye curious eyes ! — 
" Spare his dust the outrage," cries 
Decency ; such deed of night 
Grieves the heart and sickens sight. 


A lady in New Hampshire, who has been made to drink deeply of afflic- 
tion, was lately summoned, with her children, on a fair Sabbath morning, 
to witness the burning of her dwelling ; and in that calamity to behold all 
that was left of her little possessions, swept away. The neighbors, deeply 
sympathizing with her, stood, and gazed on the ruins, unmindful of the bell 
that called to afternoon worship. She, as usual, attended church, and by 
her calm demeanor and absorbed spirit, showed that the sanctuary is the 
place where sorrow may find its healing, as well as where joy may express 
its gratitude. 

I 've told my story ; need my verse 
On such instructive grief to dwell ? 

Or to the heart, in lines, rehearse 
What every heart might love to tell ? 

( 221 ) 

In my mind's eye, I see her stand, — 
Her soul subdued, yet all unbroke, — 

Receiving from her Father's hand — 
Herself a child — a Father's stroke. 

By stern affliction, years before, 

Led gently down the humble vale, 
Where pilgrims drink of Heaven, the more 

That earthly streams of comfort fail. 
Her mansion, wrapped in cruel flame, 

That leaps and darts in fiery glee ; 
A fierce devourer none can tame, 

The mother's eye is bid to see. 

The mother — on whose slender arms, 

Pale, drooping flowers, her daughters lean ; 
To shield from life's unnumbered harms, 

To guide through wastes, as yet unseen — 
Beholds depart what Mercy spared ; 

Sees hopes, that lingered, turn to dust ; 
And yet, for woe by woes prepared, 

The storm but drives her to her Trust. 

The neighbors strive ; yet all in vain 

Their feeble strife with giant Fire ; 
The servant freed will despot reign, 

And show how grovelings may aspire. 
They gaze, nor heed the bell that calls, 

Entreating, to the house of prayer ; — 
She hears, and on her spirit falls, 

Like balm, the invitation there. 



In my mind's eye, I see her kneel 

Where hope is strengthened from above ; 
Those quiet tears the peace reveal 

That flows when trial comes in love. 
And she is taught in Sorrow's school, 

On Heaven, alone, her feet to stay ; 
And takes, for her's, the Psalmist's rule — 

In grief or gladness still to pray. 


Many ways, Jehovah ! Thou 
Hast to make the sinner bow ; 
Many gracious ways to bring 
Home the lost and wandering — 
Travelers in forbidden roads, 
Whom a guilty conscience goads ; 
And the thoughtless, who is free 
From its stingings, Lord to thee 
Thou dost win in many ways, 
And to Thee be all the praise ! 
Some thou callest in a tone 
Musical as Mercy's own. 
Sweet the harmonies that tell 
Of forgiveness, then ; — 't is well 
When they listen to the Bride, 
And renounce, forever, Pride ! 
Some thou callest by the loud 
Thunderings of thy judgment cloud ; 



When the midnight's angry peal 
Doth to quickened thought reveal 
All of vileness, dared and done, 
All of utter ruin won ; 
When transgressors, that were wooing 
Pleasure to the soul's undoing, 
Pause, bewildered — look within, 
Look to Christ, and leave their sin. 
By the path of sorrow, thou 
Leadest stricken parents now ; 
She who bendeth silently 
O'er the child that soon must die, 
Thou dost call in every groan 
Of that sufferer, to her own 
Keener anguish answering, — 
Her through trial thou dost bring, 
That she may of mercy sing, 
And from nightshade of the tomb 
Turn to flowers of living bloom. 
Some by sickness thou dost call, — 
Some, above a buried friend, 
Ponder on their latter end. 
Others, shuddering at the pall, 
Winding sheet, and sepulchre, 
Turn to thee. Amid the stir 
Of the busy multitude, 
Some — and some in solitude ; 
Some, in visions of the night ; 
Some, when basking in the bright 
Beamings of prosperity; 
Some in abject poverty. 
Some — filled up existence' page — 
Thou dost call in wintry age ; 


Some — most sweet and pleasant flowers • 

Offer thee their vernal hours. 

Some, in their ancestral halls, 

Some, as beggared prodigals ; 

Some, the anxious father's care, 

Poured out in the midnight prayer ; 

Some, a mother's quiet tear 

To the kingdom bringeth near ; 

Plaintive hymn dissolves that soul, 

This, the noble organ's roll ; 

Some, a single caution wins ; 

This one stops, in view of sins 

Raging round him like a flood, 

And rebuked, alarmed, to God 

Flies he in the troublous hour, 

Only safe with Sovereign Power ; 

Some, within their cedar rooms, 

Others, wrapt in dungeon glooms ; 

Some, whose lot with thrones is cast, 

Some, upon the giddy mast ; 

Some, before the public gaze, 

Some, in secret. Many ways 

Of compassion, Lord ! hast thou ! 

Teaching rebel men to bow ; 

Many ways to bring to thee 

Wilful heart and stubborn knee ; 

Many ways to lead above : — 

Oh, for ways to praise thy love ! 



" No man of God shall tread this isle," 

The queen of Madagascar said ; 
" Who Christ shall teach — by force or guile 
Shall pay the forfeit of his head. 
Our gods, that give us weal or curse, 
Abused or praised, will do for us. 

" Bring forth the wretches who forsake 
The altars that our fathers served ; 
Be theirs the dungeon, stripe and stake, 

Reward of treason, well deserved. 
Draw out the sharp and shining spear, 
With vengeance flushed, — impale them here." 

She did not know that One, who sits 
Above, doth at the scoffers laugh ; 

And holds in scorn their feeble wits, 
And drives their hopes away as chaff. 

Nor knew that royal David cries 

To kings and queens, " Be wise, be wise." 

That He, on heaven's circle, spurns 
What princes deem their fondest joy ; 

And overturns, and overturns 
Their empires, like an idle toy. 

And in displeasure, sore, doth vex 

The wolves that dare His fold perplex. 


What though this Madagascar queen 
Pursues the conscript men of God, 

And with her sacrifice, obscene — 
To horrid demons — mix their blood ; 

Though kings and queens His message shun, 

They must submit, and kiss the Son. 

Though in the galaxy that flames 

Before the eye of angels, she 
Joins to those high immortal names 

The lowly, scorned, Ra-sa-la-me, * 
Who had for martyr-fame no thirst — 
Of Madagascar's martyrs first ; — 

We know the light of Bethlehem's Star 
Shall reach the darkest depths of guilt, 

Though edicts swarm of pope and czar, 
Though blood by pagan sword be spilt. 

For has not God declared decree — 

I give, my Son, the earth to Thee ? 

Then fly, ye ships ! to heathen coasts, 
All freighted with Salvation's gem, — 

And bear the sacramental hosts 

Where blinded nations wait for them : 

The world by grace must yet be won; 

By man the labor must be done. 

* Ra-sa-la-me spoke so boldly in defence of Christianity, that she was 
fixed upon to appease the wrath of the queen. She was most severely 
whipped for several days successively, before she was put to death — a 
thing never heard of before in Madagascar. She, however, continued 
steadfast to the end, and met death with such calmness and tranquility, 
that the executioners repeatedly declared that " there was some charm in 
the religion of the whites, that took away the dread of death." — Mission- 
ary Herald for February, 1839. 



" He lives, who lives to God alone, 
And all are dead beside ; 
For other source than God is none, 
Whence life can be supplied." 

Thus Cowper sung, and Cowper knew — 
And thousand? sing like this ; 

For still experience shows how true 
The Christian's source of bliss. 

Such, to a plant is likened well, 
That blooms where waters are ; 

Whose early buds of promise swell, 
Whose leaf is green and fair ; 

That thrives and yields perpetual fruit, 
Sweet, fresh, and good to see ; 

Whose sap mounts upward from the root, 
And spreads through all the tree. 

Above its sisterhood, it towers 

In beauty — not in pride ; 
And fragrance from its world of flowers 

It scatters far and wide. 

The Husbandman comes gladly down, 

Its loveliness to view ; 
Its increase is His purchased crown ; — 

His was the labor too. 

( 228) 

But those that turn their feet aside 

From Wisdom's only way, 
And, leaving God, confer with Pride, 

And selfish Will obey — 

Are dead ; no more the branch is green • 

The buds no longer swell ; 
The dry and withered leaf is seen 

On winds that waft to hell. 

Stop ! thou who dost my lines peruse ; 

Monition take from me, 
Not verse, a moment to amuse, 

A message is to thee. 

Hast thou a deep, abiding root, 

0, goodly tree, and tall ! — 
Or art thou blasted, wanting fruit, 

And nodding to thy fall ? 


Oh, why should this poor world of ours 
Bewilder with its foolish schemes — 

Delight with its decaying flowers, 

And cheat me with its empty dreams ? 

Have I one object, and but one, 

That solely should the mind engross ? 

A war to wage — a race to run — 
The gold to sever from the dross — 

(229 ) 

And, in this narrow inch of time, 
The work of countless years to do ? 

'Mid these low thoughts, a theme sublime 
To ponder, ever vast and new ? — 

And but these fleeting days of strife 

To gaze in retrospect upon, 
Through cycles of an Endless Life, 

While all its ages journey on ? 

Oh, wondrous God ! shall I be mad 
In the base struggle, thus, for gain, 

Or honor, pleasure, good and bad, 
To urge it with desire, insane ? 

Or shall I change, as years increase, 

The ill that 's past, for worse to come — 

Pursue with tears the phantom, peace, 
And overtake of woe the sum ? 

Nor pause upon my march, one hour, 
My march, that with the grave begins — 

And strive to snap, with frenzied power, 
The chain that binds me to my sins ? — 

Upon the topmast sleeping yet, 

Whence down to depths I may be cast, 

Shall I dream on, and still forget 

The port which I must make at last ? — 

Nor listen to the voice that weeps 
Above the storm, in hopeless pain ; 

Nor heed the wretches o'er whom sweeps 
The dark and melancholy main ? 



I '11 pause — my weary soul ! one hour ; 

For thee a new career begins ; 
I '11 strive to snap, with frenzied power, 

The chain that binds me to my sins. 

This hour ! this hour ! Oh, no ; oh, no ; 

This hour eternity may be : 
This moment, blessed Lord, I go, 

From sin and sin's despair, to Thee. 



The portal, opening into Paradise ; 

Where grace, that in the bud was here below, 

Into thejlower of glory straight shall blow." 

Francis Taylor, 1658. 

We may to our companion go, 
And strive to lessen anguish thus, 

While softened sorrows freely flow — 
But he will ne'er return to us. 

We may, recalling all the charms 
And solid worth that made him dear, 

Fold round his form affection's arms, 
And seem to hold the spirit here. 

But no — that spirit is away ; 

We only clasp insensate dust ; — 
That soars in uncreated day, 

Tlris waits the rising of the just. 


Here, now, at dull corruption's claim, 
How slumbers this without a care ; 
" On wheels of light, on wings of flame," 
How that, for aye, expatiates there / 

And can it be, the cheek of bloom, 

That spake of bliss, and days, and health, 

Is pillowed in the silent tomb, 

To glut the worm's insatiate wealth ? 

And can it be, the eye of light 

That flashed out boyhood's hope, is dim ? 
And shades of everlasting night 

Have lowered, and settled down on him ? 

And can it be, the dulcet voice, 

That captive held Refinement's throng, 

And wakened tears, and bade rejoice, — 
Reveals no more the soul of song ? 

We fondly ask, if all that gave 

To parents, friends, associates — joy, 

Can sink to an untimely grave ? 
Can such, Decay, indeed, destroy ? 

We ask, dear youth ! and from the sod 
Which covers all that late was fair, 

Turn to the dwelling-place of God, 

Thy home — and find an answer there. 



Man is wrong in his pursuits, — 
Sowing wrong, unholy fruits 
Reapeth he. In desiring 
He is wrong. In aspiring, 
Yea, in groveling, he is wrong ; 
Weak in good, in evil strong. 
Wrong, the moment he beginneth 
Running in the race of life. 
At each step he only sinneth ; 
And his goal is only strife. 
Wrong in childhood — how perverse, 
Obstinate, and giddy he ! 
Wrong in youth — a frequent curse, 
Parent ! is thy boy to thee : 
Wrong in manhood ; just the course 
Wisdom warneth from, he takes ; 
Wrong in age — he 's folly's source, 
Whence the wrecking torrent breaks. 
Wrong in hopes, and wrong in fears, 
Wrong in smiles, and wrong in tears, 
Wrong in object, wrong in plan, 
Wrong in action — such is man ! 
Wrong in life, his parting breath 
Ebbs out as an idle song : 
Wrong is he in awful death — 
Living, dying, only wrong. 
" Cynic ! " — No, a truthful sketch 
Gives my pencil of thy face ; 
Here, thou seest what a wretch 
Is God's image, wanting grace. 



" Agreeably to her request, her little babe was baptized at the head 
of its mother's coffin." 

Lieth here beneath her shroud, 
Like a star beneath a cloud, 
She, of whom our love was proud. 

Common mourners are not here ; 
Sorrow, bending o'er this bier, 
Drops no inexpressive tear. 

Kind, consistent, earnest one ; 
Active — all her labor done ; 
Ripe for summons to the Son. 

Meek in her allotted place ; 
Panting for and finding grace; 
Winner in the Christian race. 

Giving life, she yielded life ; 

Sharp the struggle, sore the strife, — 

Quick and keen the severing knife. 

In the matron's modest bloom, 
Just a mother — to the tomb 
Summoned by relentless Doom. 

Just allowed earth's purest bliss, 
Just allowed her bud to kiss, 
Ere she perished — anguish, this ! 



" Perished ?" — No ! — from this terrene 
Borne by angels, she is seen ; 
God beholds the evergreen ! 

Stay awhile the funeral stave ! 
Stay, ere the insatiate grave 
Takes the lovely dust it gave. 

Stay ! — for so she bade us — 
We perform her dying will, 
Ere the waiting grave ye fill ! 


Bring the precious, fatal gift ! 
Heart! thy inner purpose sift, 
TThile the fervent prayer we lift. 

Meet it is, in truthful prayer, 
Thus to God our grief and care 
To commit and leave them there. 

Meet it is, when mothers go, 
Thus the orphan to bestow 
On His heart who loves it so ! 

Bring it to the Coffin's Head ! 
Kneel, while solemn word is said, 
In the presence of the dead ! 

Though her little babe is nigh, 
From that bosom, where 't would lie, 
Comes not the maternal si^h. 

( 235 ) 

Beckon not the sheltering arms, 
To protect it from alarms ; 
Speaketh not the voice that calms. 

Ah ! the stream of life is dried, 
"Which those tiny lips supplied ; 
Ah ! a mother's breast denied ! 

Peaceful doth that mother lie — 
Closed affection's ear and eye ; 
Heedless of her baby's cry. 

Water — of blest purity 
Emblem — do we pour on thee ; 
Little one ! regenerate be — 

Only by the crimson flood 
Of the Spotless, in the blood 
Of the very Son of God ! 

Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ! 
Take the helpless — take the lost, 
Purchased, once, at Calvary's cost. 

Onward ! — we have holy joy 
Breaking on our sad employ ; 
Death! thou canst not this destroy. 



Come out of Egypt, oh, mine undefiled, 
Dove of the Lord ; innocuous, wondrous Child ! 
Thy foes are dead, and sleeps the sword that swept 
The home of Eama, when their Rachel wept. 

Come out of Egypt — to that land of death 
The shut-up heavens reveal, not now, life's breath ; 
To Zion shall the Light of Life return ; 
O'er Palestine the Gospel Star shall burn. 

Come out of Egypt ; not " in haste," " by night, 
As when fear waited on Messiah's flight ; 
In peace return to David's royal town, 
Whose throne awaits thee not, nor lineal crown. 

Come out of Egypt ; yet, as sinks the sun, 
To rise again when night's due course is run, 
So thou, from Mizraim, shalt withdraw thy ray, 
To flood her with thy beams another day. 

Come out of Egypt ; yet, to trials come ; — 
To suffering, lack of ease, of friends, of home; 
Yes, griefs by day, at night, with tears to lie ; 
Come, thou, to be betrayed, to groan and die. 

Come out of Egypt, from the grave to rise, 
And, for its slain, to ope the eternal skies ; 
To plant Religion's Rose in every wild, 
To bless a world ; — oh, come, Incarnate Child ! 

( 237) 


u We know not the depth of the wisdom of thee, our Prince. Who could 
have thought, that had been ruled by his reason, that so much sweet as we 
do now enjoy should have come out of those bitter trials wherewith we 
were tried at the first ? " — The Holy War. 

Sweet out of bitter, God designed 

For weary, wandering man ; 
And only he who is resigned 

To God, fulfils the plan. 

And he may see, that hath an eye, 

Those purposes above, 
"Written on ocean, earth, and sky — 

Wrought in the web of love. 

Complex, indeed, the wondrous threads 

That form the warp and woof; 
Yet light the Almighty Toiler sheds 

On work, for our behoof. 

He speaks to us — a veil between — 

In language all unknown, 
Till Faith instructs — and then 'tis seen 

As lucid as his throne. 

Yea, did we not on trial look 

With unbelieving eyes, 
'T would be to us a gracious book, 

Perused with glad surprise. 


If we, unyielding, do not Lear 

The Appointer's gentle rod ; 
With stripes, increasingly severe, 

May come a frowning God. 

His wisdom is a mighty sea ; 

And we may not explore 
The depths of his Infinity, — 

That flood without a shore. 

These griefs, like sloughs, that mar our way, 

And seem our course to blight, 
Seen thus, are green spots, where we may 

Lie down, and take delight. 

When sounding our high harps, the chord 

That best will quicken heaven, 
Will be the anthem to our Lord, 

For all earth's trials given. 

And counting there the mercy-gems, 

Set here with skill divine — 
While others fade, as diadems 

How will these sorrows shine ! 

Come, partner ! we have wept full long ; 

Full long have lain opprest ; 
Rise ! — for the past give God a song, 

And trust Him for the rest. 

The cloud has lowered, the storm has rung 

Its wild blast to the heart ; 
But sunbeams on that cloud are flung — 

The storm will soon depart. 

(239 ) 

These bitter tears, if seen aright 
The Source which bids them flow, 

Will change to those fair drops of light 
That make the rainbow's show. 

All rebel murmurings will die, 

And we, rebuked, and still, 
Like vanquished storms, will love to lie 

Beneath our Father's will. 

" Sleep is awful." — Byron. 

To him at strife with conscience, sleep 

Must be a thing of dread ; 
What images of horror leap 

Like fiends about his bed ! 
He tosses on the eider-down, — 

The finely textured sheet 
That wraps his body, fails to give 

The rest to nature sweet. 

Yet is sleep " awful ? " — Ask the hind 

That plods among the corn, 
How seemeth slumber unto him, 

Who toils from rosy morn 
Till welcome evening shades the hills — 

He laughs at such a word ; 
What is there awful to his breast 

By no ill musings stirred ? 

6 — — — =6 


In visions of the night, when earth, 

So late in arms, is dumb, 
And all is hushed, save troubled thoughts 

That like dark phantoms come, — 
How sadly rise, in long array, 

The deeds men deemed were fled ! 
How busy cruel Memory then, 

With things long fancied dead ! 

Then sleep is awful — wonder not 

That he who sin did choose, 
Still found all things designed for good, 

To yield him good, refuse. 
Or that, in his soul's agony, 

With every mercy given 
He battled, who in madness waged 

Unhappy war with Heaven. * 

To such, each gift of love, of life, 

Each than the other worse — 
Can only be, in its abuse, 

A constant, bitter curse. 
For what to virtue blessings are, 

Most sweet, and safe and kind, — 
Are evils, terrible to him 

Of sin-distempered mind. 

* See Lord Byron's verses on completing his thirty-sixth year: 

"The fire that on my bosom preys 
Is lone as some volcanic isle," <fcc. 




" A weary world," forever cry 

The stricken, troubled, and the sad ; 
And openly, alike the bad, 
Alike the good, in secret sigh ; 

And " weary, weary world," is still 
The burden of their song of ill. 

Aforetime, I have strung some lays 

In idleness, to theme like this ; 

And shut my wilful eyes on bliss, 
That round me lay in noontide blaze ; 

And chose the darkness that, in stour, 

Fancy beheld around me lower. 

It pleased me then, to say or sing, 
" This world is all a fleeting show ; " 
And all its joys, as well as woe, 

Are sombre as the raven's wing, 
And flat as dreams of folly past, 
That charm awhile, and cheat at last. 

I 've wiser grown ; — and this fair world 
Seems fraught with something of the grace, 
That God inscribed upon its face, 

When he the lovely planet hurled 

Away, — as Time began his years, — 
To join the dances of the spheres. 



" My heart leaps up," when I am fanned 
By morning's fragrance-laden air ; 
How blessed is the night ! how fair 
The landscape where I spy His hand ! 
The hill and vale have charms for me ; 
The river, and the broad blue sea. 

Yes ! and its fields, and fruits, and flowers, 
Its sun, and stars, and glorious frame, 
Now tell me of the Maker's Name. 

I read it in the flying hours, 
I feel it in the summer's glow ; 
'T is spangled on the winter's snow. 

His love I welcome in the joy 

Of friendship, and I need not roam 
For sweeter proof; my humble home — 

Where pleasures dwell, that never cloy, 
Where peace has dove-like wing unfurled - 
Tells me 't is not a " weary " world. 

" Sin makes it weary ; " true, yet here 
Thy argument doth blindly halt ; 
'T is not the world, but man 's in fault ; 
And were to such the heavens brought near, 
And could sin there one moment dwell, 
Then heaven would be a " weary" hell. 

And spirit ! can that weary be, 

Disgusting, vexing, on whose front 
(Too deeply writ for ruin's brunt, 

Or change,) stands thy eternity ? 

This, on which spleen in judgment sat, 
Thy one probation-place for that I 


( *« ) 

God never wrought with ill intent, 
Nor vainly ; and this glorious world, 
O'er which his starry skies are curled, 

O'er which his bow of love is bent — 
Scene of his Son's accomplished plan — 
Is not a " weary " world for man. 

I '11 love it, and with holy love ; 
For its high mysteries will employ 
Thought, language, love, in worlds of joy. 

There — and such be my bliss above ! — 
Earth has sweet portion in the soul, 
And shall have, as those ages roll. 


Written "while its original, Rev. James Patterson, of Philadelphia, was 
in the midst of his days and usefulness, and six weeks prior to his sudden 
and lamented death. 

He ministers where busy men 

Do cluster in the mart of Penn. 

Its northern suburbs well have known 

The light that twenty years hath shone 

In many an alley, lane and street 

Of those thronged Liberties, where meet 
The careless, godless and profane. 

In many a house his ready feet 
Have visited, a soul to gain, 
Whom he hath warned, and not in vain. 


Wouldst note him ? Seek yon dome of prayer, 

His wonted place — behold him there. 
He stands, with form that toil hath bowed, 
In meekness to delight that crowd. 

His furrowed cheek and thin grey hair 
Would tell of age, did not that eye 
Of kindling spark, the thought deny ; — 
Would tell of weakness, did not lips 

Of burning eloquence, and heart 
That into Heaven's mystery dips, 

Instruction, awe and peace impart. 

With Saxon strength of language, he 

Pours thoughts that rise in giant strength ; 
With quaint, appropriate imagery, 
Convincing in simplicity, 

He shows his subject's breadth and length. 
The weapon doth he strongly draw, 
Bright, keen and tempered, of the law ; 
And while fools cavil, that its edge 

Wears not a nice and useless shine, 
It severs like a mighty wedge 

The gnarled tough heart with power divine. 

Dost ask for fruit ? 'T is ample — some 

Is gathered up to bless him here ; 
And from earth's confines men shall come — 
His crown, when lost are star and sphere. 
" That Day of wrath, that dreadful Day 
When heaven and earth will pass away " — 
When swells on high the trumpet's sound, 
Let me be found where he is found ! 
When sinks beneath my foot the land, 
Let me but stand where he doth stand ! 



Who shall be greatest deemed of all 

That sit in white on thrones above? 
Not he for gifts esteemed, like Paul, 

But he who toiled, like Paul, in love. 
Earth's great ones, while abashed they wear 

In heaven, a rayless diadem, 
Shall see such, high in glory there, 

Spangled and starred with many a gem. 


Behold where the exalted Son 

To infants offers rest ; 
Come, parent, bring thy little one, 

And lay it on His breast. 

He round its wakeful hours, will fling 
The Arm that safely keeps ; 

And, better than an angel's wing, 
Will fold it when it sleeps. 

He '11 flush its cheeks with rosy health ; 

From sickness guard, and pain ; 
Or, if He comes to ask thy wealth 

Of blessing back again, 

Will lead it from our frosts, to where 
Bright summer never dies ; 

And, as their offspring eagles bear, 
Will bear it to the skies. 




0, holy man, what thou dost teach 

Disquieteth my heart ; 
Can stain my spotless infant reach ? 

Hath folly in it part ? 

My bird, just fledged to cheerful life, 
And chirping from its nest, 

What can it know of sorrow's strife ? 
What needeth it of rest ? 

Its eye is clear, its pulse is free, 

Life leaps in every vein ; 
Why namest thou my joy to me, 

In company with pain ? 

The weary, heavy-laden one, 
By secret sin oppressed — 

The youth, to open follies won, 
The aged, sigh for rest ; — 

But this, my bud of morning's hour, 
Is new to this world's sky ; 

God will not let such tender flower 
By passion's tempests die. 


Yet bring it, parent ! for thy child, 

Mortality's true heir, 
Is cast out in a thorny wild 

Of passion, grief, and care. 

That eye disease may dim ; that form - 
God's sweet and graceful flower — 

May droop before the cruel storm, 
And perish in an hour. 


The little babe may " weary " be ; 

The buoyant child of mirth 
Thou mayest a " burdened pilgrim " see, 

Pressed heavily to earth. 

The germ of folly hid within 

May sprout in baleful bloom ; 
The unregarded spark of sin 

May flesh and soul consume. 

Of joumeyers to a world above, 

Whate'er their fortunes be, 
The youngest need a Saviour's love — 

The love that helpeth thee. 

That love sufficeth for the old ; 

'T is treasure for the man ; 
Life for the children of the fold, 

And infant of a span. 

Nor think thy dreams, prospective, give 
Firm ground for hope to build ; 

The man lives not — he may not live, 
Whose every hope 's fulfilled. 

Spring's blossoms, studding thick the bough, 

Oft fail of autumn's fruit ; 
God doth with leaves the tree endow, — 

A worm is at the root. 

'T is wise for us, for them 't is wise, 

Ere falls the teaching rod — 
To point their wishes to the skies, 

Their purposes to God. 


For, when he pillared earth on air, 

And did the waters bind, 
Children and parents blended were 

With pity in his Mind. 

Of blessings which a Father gives, 
Wouldst thou thy child defraud? 

The Abrahamic Covenant lives — 
Its seal : thus saith the Lord ! 

? T is kind — while o'er the waves of sin 
All safely rides our bark — 

To take our struggling children in 
With us to Mercy's Ark. 

Now, then, in this, its feeble hour, 

To quiet thine alarms, 
Commit thy infant to His power, 

And to a Saviour's arms. 

And for it ask Almighty care, 

And ask securing grace ; 
His heart hath audience for thy prayer, 

And for thy child a place. 

0, while these sparkling water-drops 
Suffuse my infant's brow, 

Its spirit wash from every stain, 
And bless it, Saviour ! Thou ! 




There is an hour of hallowed peace 

For those with cares distressed, 
When sighs and groans and tears shall cease, 

And all be hushed to rest ; — 
'T is then the soul is freed from fears, 

And doubts that here annoy — 
And they who oft have sown in tears, 

Shall reap again with joy. 

There is a home of sweet repose, 

Where storms assail no more ; 
The stream of endless pleasure flows 

Along that heavenly shore. 
There smiling peace w r ith love appears, 

And bliss without alloy ; 
There they who once have sown in tears 

Now reap eternal joy. 

When the revealing hour is near 

That sunders every tomb, 
And on our way of doubt and fear 

We pass the valley's gloom — 
Jesus, calm our mortal fears ; 

Let praise our lips employ — 
So we, who here have sown in tears, 

Shall reap in Heaven with joy. 



Written for a Sunday School Celebration in the country. 

Gathered by the hand of kindness, 

Where Instruction holdeth rule, 
While the weeks fulfilled their courses, 

We have met in Sunday School. 
When reigned o'er us frowning Winter, — 

When the laughing Spring gave flowers, - 
We have met in golden Autumn, 

We have met in Summer showers. 

But, to-day, we come together, 

Where on Nature's face we look ; 
Every tree to us a letter, 

Every field and grove a book. 
Here we take from leaves our lessons ; 

Task the insect on the wing ; 
And with birds and rippling waters, 

Join our voices as we sing. 

Here, in cheerful recreation, 

Which to-morrow wont condemn — 
We, to-day, improve the moments, 

Knowing Wisdom numbers them. 
And, around these woodlands playing, 

Frisking, buzzing, like the bee, 
Each will think that God is saying, 

" In your sports Remember Me ! " 


Thus, along life's checkered way-side, 

May we always lessons take, 
Which the Great Instructor scatters, 

For the youth and children's sake. 
And, while yet the heart is lightest, 

May for Him its pulses beat, 
So shall He, whose smile is brightest, 

Shine, when darkness wraps our feet. 

Gathered by the hand of kindness, 

Where Instruction holdeth rule, 
We shall learn not long together, 

We must leave our Sunday School ! 
Yet, while time and youth are flying, 

May we so improve our powers, 
As to say, or living, dying, 

" We are Christ's, and Christ is ours." 

Then, should floods of sorrow gather, 

As about our path they must, — 
While the clouds of trial thicken, 

And the muttering thunders burst, — 
We, of sunshine ever dreaming, 

O'er them all shall see the bow ; 
God ! where all thy skies are gladness, 

Wilt Thou disappoint us ? — No ! 



Shall I be dumb, whose harp was slave 

When folly asked a song from me ? 
Shall I be stupid now, who gave 

To every idol willing knee ! 
No ! let the world rebuke my zeal, 

And scoffs upon my purpose fling ! 
I '11 teach the strings the joy I feel, 

Harp, song, and soul shall praise the King. 

What though the Cross, to those who die, 

Appeals in vain with tears and blood, — 
They hearing not its human cry, 

They seeing not upon it God, — 
Yet, veiled within this type of guilt, 

Salvation is beheld by Faith ; 
She sees the stream for rebels spilt, 

She hears the words that Mercy saith. 

But little deemed the sworded bands, 

Who raised thee on Judea's steep, 
That to the Cross should Gentile lands, 

Though cold and flinty, look and weep. 
But little deemed the mitred priest, 

Or scribe, who urged the furious yell, 
That with thy reign their empire ceased, 

That at thy rise tradition fell. 


But little deemed the rabble rout, 

Self-damned, by imprecation rash — 
Who, drunk with madness, gave the shout, 

And robe and thorn, and reed and lash — 
That ages thence, till Time is done, 

Mankind shall reverence yield to Thee ; 
And to thy Slain, who, dying, won, 

Earth, hell, and heaven shall bow the knee. 

Nor they, of all, the only true, 

Who pressed upon thy Victim's hem, — 
Nor yet their Saviour fully knew, 

The " Daughters of Jerusalem ; " 
Though they, with Woman's earnest truth, 

Watched through the earthquake and the gloom, 
And hasted in the morning's youth, 

With precious spices to His tomb. 

A pledge, a treasure, treason's word, 

A bauble at the papal shrine, — 
A standard, when the world was stirred, 

To sweep the fields of Palestine, — 
A sweet memorial of the dead, 

That die in Him who died on thee, 
Thou, Cross ! on which the Paschal bled, 

Hast been, and art, and yet shalt be. 

And thee, a gem, may pilgrims wear, 
Or dark-eyed maidens of the South, — 

By thee the bearded Russ may swear, 
Or Greek profess with lying mouth ; 


( 25 ^) 

Or, of the cowl and cloister, he 

Thy seal shall on the forehead make, 

And laugh at paid immunity 

From sin he never need forsake. 

Or thou mayst glare amid the gloom 

That wraps the assassin paths of Spain ; 
Or thee, in pomp, imperial Rome 

May lift, the sign of Error's reign ; 
We claim no less the symbol given, 

So simple, true, like our belief — 
Despised by Earth, approved by Heaven — 

Of peace and pain, of joy and grief. 

Though planted on a barren hill, 

Thou art a tree whose worth divine 
Yields more delight, the sense to fill, 

Than stately palm, or clustering vine. 
Beneath thy boughs, all stained with gore, 

I stand and pluck the fruit above, 
Whose sweetness relish leaves for more, 

Whose fragrance is Immortal Love. 

0, Blood of the Incarnate One ! 

Voice ! that warns and woos from sin, 
Dost thou for me thus freely run ? 

Dost thou speak thus, and call me in ? 
Is grace so near for me, so vile ? 

Stoops Love to such a slave of lust? 
Shall / be sharer in thy smile ? 

Are thrones reserved for groveling dust ? 


I, loser by the fatal tree, 

In Adam, — see it all restored 
By Him, the Adam, who, on thee, 

My pardon bought, my Saviour, Lord. 
In life, I '11 glory in the shame 

The foolish world in thee discerns ; 
In death, I '11 seek no other Name 

Than His, the unbeliever spurns. 

I hear and trust that pardoning Voice, 

I see and seek that healing Blood, 
And in the dying Man rejoice, 

And glory in the living God. 
And can I bid my song be mute ? 

So apt. to speak of worldly dross — 
Wake, soul and song and lyre and lute ! 

To tell the wonders of the Cross. 


In the dew-drop you behold 

Myriad splendors merged in one ; 

Showing, like a sea of gold, 
All the glories of the sun. 

Man, before the throne above, — 
Where no sinful foot hath trod, — 

Thus reflects the perfect love 
Of the awful, glorious God. 



Christian ship, of Turkish title, 
Rich in Heaven's treasure — 

March ! march ! in God's Name, 
To wind and water's measure. 

Home the gospel laborer take, 

Who takes his sickle, bright ; 
Home ! — the Missionary's home 

Is where the fields are white. 

No farewells ! can they part 

Who are linked in union ? 
Toss between us, billows ! heart 

Is with them in communion. 

March ! march ! upon the waters ; 

Joyful is our song ; 
God ! who love Thee must be joyful — 

They who trust Thee, strong. 

Dance, ye banners ! strain ye sails ! 

Softly now and fair — 
What a breeze hath Heaven's Ship ! 

What a breath is Prayer ! 



Sung at the Anniversary of the Howard Benevolent Society, of Boston, 
in the Old South Church, November, 1S42. 

O Thou of Calvary ! Thou didst bear 
Our sad infirmity and care ; 
Our griefs didst to thy bosom take, 
And soothe them for compassion's sake. 

Thy blessed feet the hovel trod, 

Where Want was shunned of all but God ; 

Thy healing hand did softly press 

The forehead troubled by distress. 

Thou art Benevolence, Divine ! 
Impart to us that love of Thine, — 
Disinterested, quiet, pure, 
With constancy that shall endure. 

May we to men by deeds of Love 
Exemplify Thee, though above ; 
And in Thy life our duty see, 
And, as disciples, follow Thee. 

Disciples — not in creed alone ; 
Of Thee, by works, may each be known ; 
Nor vainly dream a faith that 's dead 
Unites to Christ, the Living Head. 

So, in Thy Day, to question made, 
" Have ye Compassion's law obeyed ? " 
In dust, we will no merit take, 
While answering, " Yes, for Thy dear sake/" 


(258 ) 


Sung at the Anniversary of the American Education Society, in Park 
Street Church, Boston, May, 1842. 

This Earth, to the thorn and the brier now given, 

Was meant to show flowers and fruitage for Heaven ; 

Though failing in these, 't is not hopeless, 0, no ! 

Here grain for the Lord may abundantly grow ; 

Truth's metaphor shines when he calls it a field 

That can wheat both for time and eternity yield ; 

Yet we've wept and we've toiled, and what more can we do ? 

The harvest is plenteous, the laborers are few. 

" Too many I " — Yes, one for a destitute world 
Were too many for him who has o'er it unfurled 
His banner of darkness. " Too many " from woe, 
Eternal, its millions to rescue ? O no ! 
Hear Africa, Asia, America, cry ; 
Hear Europe ; — we hear, and while hearing, they die ! 
Yet we've wept and we've toiled, and what more can we do ? 
The harvest is plenteous, the laborers are few. 

Up, Christian, who long in the furrow hast trod ; 
Up, convert, with all your fresh vigor for God ; 
Up aged, up manhood, up youth at the call, 
Though you rally by thousands, there 's labor for all ; 
That soil you shall vanquish, by faith it is won ! 
That wheat you shall gather, by prayer it is done ! 
Pray ye, therefore, the Master more laborers to send, 
Heaven's joy to begin, and Earth's sorrow to end. 

(259 ) 


'T is good for us to rest to-day, 

And keep the precept well ; 
'T is good in village church to pray. 

At warning of the bell. 

'T is good in fair and noble towns, 

By brilliant thousands trod, 
Or where the forests wear their crowns, 

To stay and worship God. 

'Tis good upon the bounding seas 

To pray with soul and lip ; 
God spies the sailor on his knees, 

Aboard the merchant ship. 

And here, where our forefathers sleep, 
Who crossed of yore the waves, 

'T is good the Sabbath-day to keep 
Among their ancient graves. 

'T is good to dwell where they have dwelt ; 

'T is good awhile to stay 
And pray at altars where they knelt, 

As they were wont to pray. 

Though from our rites the thoughtful eye 

May wander where are seen 
The tokens of the dead, that lie 

In ranks of summer green : 

Who, while we wait upon the Lord, 

That blessings may distil — 
For us, their sons, keep watch and ward 

On yonder silent hill : 


We, as did they, in pilgrimage 
Lean on these Sabbath hours ; 

Theirs, in each past eventful stage ■ 
present God, be ours ! 


Sung at the Dedication of the Baptist Meeting House in Pawtucket, R. L, 
December 15, 1S42. 

We give Thee not a shrine of gold, 
Nor oils and gums of price untold ; 
No glory-cloud to-day hath shone, 
As filled the house of Solomon. 

Yet here our hearts have inly burned ; 
Yet here the wanderer hath returned ; 
How deep the love ! how sweet the fear ! 
" One greater than the temple 's here." 

This house — in which to teach Thy way, 
That God must rule and man obey — 
Where doctrines shall distil, where all 
On Thee, in truth, may freely call, — 

Where converts, as the drops of dew, 
Shall gather ; saints their vows renew — 
We dedicate to Father, Son, 
And Holy Spirit, Three in One. 




Thy blessing, gracious Providence, 

If thou to man reveal, — 
The manufacturer plies his art, 

And commerce speeds the wheel. 
On skill to plan, and toil to frame, 

If thou thy smile bestow, 
The vein is reached, and streams of gold 

Run in perpetual flow. 

But when Thy frown appears, the tide 

Rolls back with angry power ; 
And then, oh ! God, what dreams of pride, 

Years-built — die in an hour ! 
How strangely vanish yellow heaps, 

That painful toil has raised ! 
How frightful is the labyrinth, then, 

TVhere wisdom's self is mazed ! 

If in the mighty gulf is whelmed 

One who has bowed to pelf, 
Or one whose narrow purposes 

Have centered in himself, 
By this sharp trial show to him — 

Perhaps a lesson new — 
That he alone lives up to Man, 

Who lives for others too. 

And if Thy finger him has touched, 
And fairest prospects riven — 

Who, as Thine almoner, dispensed 
Thy gifts, as dews of heaven, — 


His noble heart, that was not wed 

To these, do Thou refine ; 
And by this kind rebuking make 

Yet more Thy servant thine. 

Oh ! it is merciful that thus 

Thy chastening hand is felt, 
When we, departing from Thy shrine, 

Have to our idols knelt. 
Then let this call, so loud, so stern, 

Which our whole nation hears — 
Now sweetly win us to return, 

In penitence and tears ! 


The following is the closing paragraph of Patrick Henry's will : " I have 
now disposed of all my property to my family ; there is one thing more I 
wish I could give them, and that is the Christian Religion. If they had 
this, and 1 had not given them one shilling, they would be rich ; and if 
they had not this, and I had given them all the world, they would be poor." 

He willed them lands, and tenements, and gold, — 
All that he had by care and caution won, — 

To those, his kinsmen, to enjoy and hold, 

Till their predestined course, like his, was run ; 

And each to others should the same devise, 

Leaving, for self, memorial — " Here he lies." 

All that he had — save one unpurchased gem, 

Which, never loaned nor bought, could not be sold 


Nor willed away. Yet, though the diadem 

Of God were blank without it, 't is not bold 
To say that waters, which the free winds kiss, 
Are not more plentiful and free than this. 

All that he had — save that, the lord of which, 
Ragged and starved — by kings may envied be ; 

While he without it, though as Croesus rich, 
Is but the veriest heir of poverty ; 

And sad inheritor, than penury, worse, 

Of the undying worm — eternity's true curse. 

All that he had — My God ! what were it all, 
What the broad universe thou fashionedst well, 

To that, which, hell possessing, hell we 'd call 

Heaven; without which, heaven would be a hell? 

Nothing ! and infinitely less than nought, — 

Without the treasure worlds have never bought. 

He could devise lands, tenements and gold, — 
All that he had by toil and talents won, — 

To those, his kinsmen, to enjoy and hold, 
Till their last sand of life was also run ; — 

He could enrich them with earth's shining dust, 

And glut, to loathing, avaricious lust ; 

He could not give them the immortal gem, 
For which a man were wise to sell his soul; 

Which burns and flashes in God's diadem. 
This was beyond the orator's control ; — 

Beyond, of wit and eloquence, the power, 

To loan, or to retain a single hour. 


Tet they may have it ; — thou mayst have it ! — I 
May gather this into my hidden place ; 

Not to gloat o'er it, with delighted eye, 

And see it lessen ; — but, with added grace, 

To mark its glories, sparkling, blazing far. 

Ineffably serene, a bright and blessed Star. 


And this was plucked by Friendship's hand, 
And this was kindly borne to me 
From the heart's treasure-land, 
Gethsemane ! 

The conscious soil, that gave to birth 
Its venerable parent tree, 

"Was thy blood-moistened earth, 
Gethsemane ! 

On whose cold bosom, that sad night, 
The Guiltless sank for guilty me ; 
When angel-wings made bright 
Gethsemane ! 

When darkness o'er a God in tears 
Drew solemn veil, that none might see 
How wrath divine woke fears, 
Gethsemane ! 

When — that might pass the dreadful cup, 
The Sufferer prayed in agony ; 
Yet, bade to drink it up, 
Gethsemane — 




His prayer had answer in new power, 
Strengthened, he should the victor be, 
Though hell was strong that hour, 
Gethsemane ! 

Garden of Hesperides ! 

I seek thy wondrous laden tree, 
Whose apple heals disease, — 
Gethsemane ! 

Eden ! where, if I take and eat, 
'T is Life, immortal Life to me ; 
My soul's uncloying meat, 
Gethsemane ! 

The thoughts are sweet and full of heaven, 
That rise, and throng, and cling to thee ; 
Wings ! wings ! — if wings were given, 
Gethsemane — 

Not thee I 'd seek ; thou art too far ; 
The Crucified is nigh to me ; 

Life's Joy — day's Sun — night's Star 
Gethsemane ! 

All day, His presence here to keep, 
I need not such memorial see ; 
All night, Love doth not sleep, 
Gethsemane ! 

Yet will the frequent thought return, 
AU redolent of bliss and thee — 

Quickening cold Love, till Love shall burn, 

Gethsemane ! 



No pledge shall wake my joy ; my grief 
Shall few memorials stir, like thee, 
Thou sacred Olive Leaf! — 
Gethsemane ! 

Eyes ! with delicious tears be dim ; 

Soul, leap ! for Love hath set thee free ; 
Voice ! join with Calvary's hymn 
" Gethsemane ! " 

Anticipate the theme, the same 

That sung by rescued worlds will be, 
When worlds expire in flame, 
" Gethsemane ! " 

Thou brooding Dove, thou Spirit, come ! 
And take the wanderer home to thee ; 
Earth, Earth is not my home, 
Gethsemane ! 


Teacher ! at the feet of Love 

Taking thus thy weekly place, 
Giving lessons from above, 

With a winning voice and face ; 
In thy patient, pious toil, 

In thy humble, holy task, 
Who may covet richer spoil ? 

Who may higher honors ask ? 


Teacher ! leading little ones, 

As thou dost, to Mercy's fold, 
Anxious that each wisely shuns 

Cunning wolf, and robber bold ; 
Anxious that the Shepherd's care, 

Staff and rod, the flock shall keep ; 
Canst thou cease prevailing prayer ? 

Canst thou fold thine arms in sleep ? 

No ! I see thee search the Book, 

On whose page is living light ; 
And I see thee upward look 

For the grace to search aright ; 
And I see thee take thy seat, 

With a heart where love hath rule, 
And, what God hath told, repeat 

To thy class, in Sunday- School. 

Yes ; and while to others thou 

Dost life's lessons thus impart, 
Hoping future harvest, now 

Is the harvest in thine heart ! 
Say not, months and years to come, ' 

God will give the golden grain ; 
Shout a present harvest home ! 

Fruit for labor, joy for pain. 

Teacher ! he who scatters seed 
O'er the fallow ground of youth, 

Gathers for his own best need, — 
Binds for self, the sheaves of Truth ! 


" He who watereth," God hath said, 
" Shall be watered ; " who, in praise, 
Scatters to the hungry, bread, 
Finds, nor waiteth " many days." 


In the burial ground at Portland are three monuments erected to com- 
memorate the achievements of naval heroes who fell in the battles of their 
country. There is also a plain, neat obelisk, with the name, and dates of 
the birth, ministry and death of the late lamented Payson, to which is 
added the touching line, " His record is on high.' 11 

I stood, in silence and alone, 

Just at the Sabbath shut of day, 
Where, quietly, the modest stone 

Told me that Payson's relics lay. 
No gorgeous tale nor herald's arms 

Astonished with their splendid lie, 
Or hireling praise ; — in truth's meek charms 

It said, " His record is on high." 

I gazed around the burial spot 

That looks on Portland's spires below, 
And on her thousands who are not, 

Did sad yet useful thought bestow : — 
Here sleep they till the trumpet's tongue 

Shall peal along a blazing sky ; 
Yet who of these — the old and young — 

May read his record then on high! 


And near, I saw the early grave 

Of him who fought at Tripoli ; 
Who would not live the Moslem's slave, 

Who nobly perished to be free ! 
And, wrapt in freedom's starry flag, 

The chief who dared to do or die ; 
And England's son, who could not lag — 

Whose deeds his country wrote on high. 

What glory lit their spirit's track, 

When from the gory deck they flew ! 
Could wishes woo the heroes back ? 

Say, did not fame their path pursue ? 
Oh, gently sleep the youthful brave 

Who fall where martial clarions cry — 
The men, entombed in earth or wave, 

Whose blood-writ record is on high ! 

I turned again to Payson's clay, 

And recollected, well, how bright 
The radiance, far outshining day, 

That robed his soaring soul in light. 
What music stole awhile from heaven, 

To charm away his parting sigh ! 
What wings to waft him home were given, 

Whose holy record was on high ! 

And give me — trembling, said I then — 
Some place, my Saviour, where such dwell, 

And far above the pride of men 

And pomp of which the worldlings tell 



Will be my lot ; — come, haughty kings ! 

And ye who pass in glitter by, 
And feel that ye are abject things, 

Whose record is not found on high. 


" Then the priest shall let them depart with this blessing : — * The peace 
of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the 
knowledge and love of God, and of his Son, Jesus Christ, our Lord ; and 
the blessing of God A^.-gnty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be 
amongst you, and reu**un with you always.* " — The Rubric. 

'T is pleasant, in the courts of God, 

When vows and hymn and ritual cease, 
To note their awful threshold trod 

By feet that go at words of peace. 
" Depart with blessing ! " — How sincere 

And touching is the holy tone, 
That dies in music on the ear 

Of earth, and lives to heaven alone ! 

And when my fading thoughts refuse 

All utterance to the quivering lip, — 
And my glad soul in upper dews 

Its mounting wing prepares to dip, — 
Give me to hear that word below, — 

The last ere nature's flutterings cease — 
From tears and toil and empty show 

To truth and smiles — Depart in peace ! 




He who bestows a useful book 

On some ingenuous boy, 
May lodge a thought in memory's nook, 

Which ages can't destroy. 
A seed may scatter on that field, 
Whose tribute shall a thousand yield 

A harvest-home of joy. 
A casual gift of earnest love, 

For Jesus done, to men unknown — 
That shall be set with gems above, 

Around the eternal throne. 

Thee, little book ! a noble heart 

Made mine, in early days, 
With hope, thy lessons might impart 

Some thirst for Wisdom's ways. 
In sunshine I thy page devoured, 
I read thee when misfortune lowered, 

And read thee but to praise. 
My fancy, by thy beauties caught, 

Admired the portraiture divine ; 
The head retained the knowledge taught, 

The heart proclaimed, " 't is mine." 

Years pass — I meet thee yet again, 

One half my journey done — 
Behind are toils, before is pain, 

The garland is not won. 

* " Zion's Pilgrim," by Robert Hawker; a book given me in my boy- 
hood, by an excellent friend. 



Experience shows how rich the truth 
Whose simple graces charmed my youth, 

And, ere my race is run, 
May I be wise a soul to win — 

As did my friend, by gifts and prayer, 
A helpless mortal snatch from sin, 

A spirit from despair. 


Burmah's Apostle ! I can style no less 
Him who for Burmah freely yielded all — 
Soul to sharp pangs, limbs to the fetter's thrall, - 
"Wrung for the Master with so strange distress. 
Whether of joy or grief, ? t were hard to guess 
Those Voices of the Past that on thee call ! 
For in their sweet, yet melancholy fall 
Come memories of the gone, that sorely press 
On thy twice smitten heart ; and still inwrought 
With these, sublimely soars the ecstatic thought 
That Pagans in far Ava and Rangoon, 
Where in wild beauty Irrawaddy flows — 
By thee are dowered w T ith the Gospel boon. 
Such grief, such joy, the Missionary knows ! 



'T is Midnight, — and on Olive's brow 
The star is dimmed that lately shone ; 

'T is Midnight — in the garden now, 
The suffering Saviour prays alone. 

'T is Midnight — and from all removed, 
Immanuel wrestles, lone, with fears ; 

E'en the disciple that he loved 

Heeds not his Master's grief and tears. 

'T is Midnight — and for others' guilt 
The Man of Sorrows weeps in blood ; 

Yet He, that hath in anguish knelt, 
Is not forsaken by his God. 

'T is IMidnight — from the heavenly plains, 
Are borne the songs that angels know ; 

Unheard by mortals are the strains 
That sweetly soothe the Saviour's woe. 



Tomato ! thou art like the mind 
That moves not feebly with mankind ; 
Who love thee, give a generous part, 
Who hate thee, hate with all the heart. 

My morsel good, my table neat, 
I am not anxious what I eat ; 
If she, whose smile is always glad, 
Lights up the meal, 't is never bad. 

I have my favorite, as have most, 
Among the baked, and boiled, and roast ; 
Yet, for my tit-bit, would not go 
To farther clime than Mexico. 

To Mexico ! — I give him praise 
Who, hither, from those unknown ways, 
And barbarous men, of Spanish breed, 
Conveyed the small Tomato seed. 

Sure, with his lion-heart and skill, 
He might have sacked her mines at will — 
But Mexico's chief wealth to take ! — 
I '11 love Tomato for his sake. 



And for thine own, celestial Fruit ! 
(Not vegetable,) made to suit 
All circumstances ; or to pluck 
And eat, as I in Old Kentuck 

Have done ; or with white sugar sliced, 
Or soused in vinegar, well spiced, 
Or smothered in the pie, or stewed, — 
Which I like best, — thou art of food 

The simplest, sweetest, richest, best. 

O, had my humble verses zest 

Half as delicious as thine own, 

From Byron, Burns, I 'd take the throne, 

Superior in artistic pride 

As thou to edibles beside ! 

I see from earth thy tendril peep, 

And on its bosom try to creep, 

Till, propped secure, it stands upright, 
And brings its tiny germs to light. 
I see thee on the laden bush, 
(Not to excess my verse to push,) 

In thy first coat of emerald green, 
That soon a brilliant scarlet 's seen ; 
I see thee gathered, scalded, skinned — 
Some care in stripping off thy rind — 

Then duly cut, by practice, nice, 
In pieces small, and in a trice, 
With rites of salt and butter paid — 
In sauce-pan buried, and o'erlaid 

( 279 ) 

With cover, that the steaming tin 
The needful heat may keep within ; — 
Soon done — ye fair ! the bowl produce. 
And fill it with the pulp and juice ; — 

And now — with bread (or toast) and tea, 
Nought else — a feast for princes see ! 
For princes ? mouth of King Phillippe, 
Or dame Victoria's pretty lip, 

Hath bliss beyond a monarch's lacked, 
If neither hath Tomato smacked. 
Not fruit the lovely Houri sees, 
Not apple of Hesperides, 

Not cantelope, or luscious grape, 
Not pear of bell, or other shape, 
Not melon, of red juicy core, 
Not cocoa-nut, of milky store, 

Not Persia's peach, whose blush outvies 
The tints of her delightful skies, 
Not purple plum, nor damson pale, — 
Though choicest of Nonantum vale, — 

Not dishes of a thousand lands, 
To fatten cooks and kill gourmands, 
Westphalian ham, Bohemian boar, 
Or haggis, which the Scotch adore ; 

" Ros bif " of England, Frenchman's frog, 
Or Sandwich Island hog or dog, 
Nor all that gastronomic scroll, 
Though Epicurus called the roll, 

( 280) 

Or horticultural art can show 
May, with the pride of Mexico — 
" Quick ! quick ! sure, husband, love, you 're heady, 
D' ye hear ? leave off! Tomato 's ready ! " 


'T is so — He that made the good creature for use, 

Judges not on account of its ills or abuse. 

For this, and all gifts, I am thankful, 't is seen, 

From its evils — if any — I wash my hands clean. 

Many years, thank the Lord ! I 've been prospered, 't is true, 

His blessing has fallen, refreshing as dew, 

On my basket and store, and an unction doth dwell 

With every good glass that I swallow or sell. 

0, how my full heart with due gratitude thrills, 

As I think of the quantities — made up of gills — 

The thousands of gallons of Brandy and Rum 

I 've sold, and the dollars that make up the sum ! 

I began with slight means, and the Hearer of Prayer, 

Though I dealt by the small, shed his benison there. 

I had crowds in the morning, who called for their dram — 

Distinguishing favor! unworthy I am ! 

Every bloated old drunkard who wanted a drop, 

All praise to my Maker ! would come to my shop ; 

As I gave him the poison and took his last cent, 

How pure my thanksgivings to heaven that went ! 

Though his wife was in trouble for her I 'd no fears, 

I trusted that Mercy would dry up her tears ; 

( 281 ) 

And, sometimes, when counting my gains up at night, 
I have knelt to ask God for his blessings to light 
On her poor starving children ; and while at the throne 
For relief to her bosom, found joy in my own. 

But, O, times are altered, — I know to his saints 
God graciously hearkens, nor chides their complaints ; 
I would lean on Him, therefore, in confident trust, 
That He yet will uphold and will strengthen the just. 
J T is true, to make money, my cares and my pains 
Are not very trifling, nor small are my gains ; 
Yet neighbors reprove me — to them I am dumb, 
Forgive as I ought, and invite all to come ; 
And live in meek hope that these matters may mend : — 
Here and there in our churches, good Rum has a friend ; 
Some, too, that on Sundays will serve (and look civil) 
God's cup, and six days give the cup of the devil. 
Yet I mourn in my soul that I Ve fallen on times, 
When buying and selling are counted as crimes ; 
When of good reputation no man is secure, 
(Though there 's some solace left, if of cash he is sure !) 
Alas, for the profits of honest lang syne — 
The days when rum-sellers sat under their vine 
Distilling and selling, while none made afraid, 
Except scoundrels that died ere their dues they had paid. 
When holy men openly bought by the keg, 
Xor a tongue for the traffic against them could wag ; 
When times of refreshing the Sabbath would bring, 
In the shape of hot toddy, or tumbler of sling ; 
And when our good parson, not fearing ill tongues, 
Took a glass after sermon to strengthen his lungs. 

They tell me of Dobbins, now dead in his grave, 
Who perished in shame, to my liquor a slave. 



True, he mortgaged to me, in his trouble, his farm ; 
'T was spent at my counter — yet where was the harm ? 
A mite of the profits I gave to the poor, 
For hoarding each penny I cannot endure. 

Then there was young Richard, the carpenter's son, 
Stout, happy and good, till his custom I won. 
Sure enough he would drink, and if he would buy, 
Some one must sell to him ; if so, why not I ? 
If I had not sold it, my neighbor Smith would ; 
His use of the money might not have been good. 
Yet sometimes it grieves me, I freely confess, 
To think of his family steeped in distress ; 
I 've almost regretted I fingered his cash, 
Drink made him, poor fellow ! so crazy and rash ; 
For, drunk with my brandy, one night he went wild, 
And bathed his own hands in the blood of his child. 

Is the Lord indeed angry ? — will He his wrath urge ? 
He sendeth against us the Temperance scourge ! 
And lo, how its doings are troubling the saints ! 
The soul of the dealer is heavy, and faints. 
If Abstinence thrives — hateful parent of ill — 
How soon may be strangled the Worm of the Still ! 
Come Famine ! come Fever ! with pestilent breath ; 
Come War ! and lead men, by whole kingdoms, to death ; 
But spare us, of judgments, the last and the worst — 
Let not our dear land be with Temperance cursed. 
Confound, Lord, its schemes — for thy servant would dwell 
In Tophet, as soon as a Temperance Hotel. 
Its agents, its tracts, and its tee-total ships — 
Could a word blast them all, it would rush to my lips. 
Its warnings to me of eternity ring, 
My conscience is wakened and writhes with the sting. 



Destroy, Lord ! its refuge — its entering wedge 
To mischief, that 's known as the Cold Water Pledge. 
0, frown on their plans who forsake the old ways, 
And I '11 drink to their ruin, and give Thee the praise ! 


A Story of Newburyport. 

Where Whitefield sleeps, remembered, in the dust, 

The lowly vault held once a double trust ; 

And Parsons, reverend name, that quiet tomb 

Possessed — to wait the day of weal and doom. 

Another servant of the living God, 

Prince, who (bereft of sight) his way had trod, 

Unerringly and safe, life's journey through — 

Now sought admittance as a slumberer too. 

As earth receded, and the Eden blest 

Pose on his vision — " Let my body rest 

With Whitefield's," — said he, yielding up his breath ; 

Joined in their lives, and parted not in death. 

Obedient to his wish, in order then 

Were all things clone ; the tomb was oped to ken 

Of curious eyes — made ready to enclose 

Another tenant in its kind repose ; 

And, lighted with a single lamp, whose ray 

Fell dimly down upon the mouldering clay, 

Was left, once more, to silence as of night, 

Till hour appointed for the funeral rite. 


It chanced, the plodding teacher of a school - 
A man of whims, bold, reckless, yet no fool — 
Deemed this an opportunity to test 
How far the fears of spirits might infest 
The bosom of a child. A likely boy, 
The choicest of his flock, a mother's joy, 
He took, unscrupulous of means, if he 
His ends might gain, and solve the mystery. 

Both stood within the mansion of the dead, 
And w r hile the stripling mused, the teacher fled, 
Leaving the child, where the dull cresset shone, 
"With the dumb relics and his God alone. 
As the trap-door fell suddenly, the stroke, 
Sullen and harsh, his solemn re very broke. 
"Wliere is he ? — Barred within the dreadful womb 
Of the cold earth — the living in the tomb ! 
The opened coffins showed Death's doings, sad — 
The awful dust in damps and grave-mould clad. 
Though near the haunts of busy, cheerful day, 
He, to drear night and solitude the prey ! 
Must he be watcher with these corpses ! — ^Vho 
Can tell what sights may rise ? Will reason then be true ? 
Must he — a blooming, laughter-loving child — 
Be mated thus ? — The thought was cruel, wild ! 
His knees together smote, as first, in fear, 
He gazed around his prison ; — then a tear 
Sprang to his eyes in kind relief; and said 
The little boy, u I Will not be afraid. 
Was cvet' spirit of the good man known 
To injure children whom it found alone ? " 


And straight he tasked his memory, to supply- 
Stories and texts, to show lie might rely 
Most safely, humbly, on his Father's care — 
"Wlio hears a child's as well as prelate's prayer. 
And thus he stood — on Whitefield's form his glance 
In reverence fixed — and hoped deliverance. 

Meanwhile, the recreant teacher, — where was he ? 
Gone, unabashed, to take a cup of tea 
"With the lad's mother ! — Supper done, he told 
The deed that should display her son as bold. 
"With eye indignant and with words of flame, 
How showers that mother, scorn, rebuke and shame ! 
She bids him haste ! and hastes herself, to bring 
Him from Death's realm who knew not yet its sting; 
And yet believed — so well her child she knew — 
The noble boy would to himself be true ; 
He would himself sustain, and she should find 
Him patient and possessed ; and thus she stayed her mind. 

The boy yet lives — and from that distant hour 
Dates much of truth that on his heart hath power ; — 
Ajid chiefly this, — whate'er of jest is wed 
To speech of his, — to reverence the dead. 




That the marrow and the pith 
Of his grievance is, John Smith, 
Being a cognomen in use, 
Is exposed to great abuse. 
Such a number in our town — 
Farmer, trader, cobbler, clown — 
Wear it, makes it inconvenient ; 
Briefly, therefore, his intent, 
From your Body, is redress 
To implore for this distress. 
Your petitioner, so please ye, — 
Not designing long to tease ye, 
Knowing legislator's time is 
Very precious ; though his rhyme is 
Rather " lengthy," — is in trouble, 
Being somewhat more than double ; 
Filling, — true, as he respects ye, — 
Fifty pages of Direct'ry. 

* [From the Boston Post, January 17, 1842.] 
"In the House of Representatives, on Saturday, the following petition 
was presented and referred. — 
'•To the Honorable Senate and House of Represe?itatives 1 assembled^ 
; Whereas, my son is called John Smith, Jr., and there are a number 
of persons in town who bear the same name, which makes it quite incon- 
venient. Therefore, I would pray that your Honorable Body would suffer 
him to take the name of John Wesley Smith, instead of John Smith, Jr. ; 
and as in duty bound will ever pray, John Smith.' " 

( 287 ) 

More than all — and here's the evil — 
Hath a strapping son, as civil 
Likely well-to-do a lad, 
A? should make a father glad. 
By ill luck, lie's John Smith, too; 
" Junior" tacked on, it is true. 
Yet that does not greatly help it, 
Every puppy tries to yelp it. 
John Smith Juniors hourly greet 
John Smith Juniors in the street. 
Your petitioner's heart is breaking — 
He 's a father ! — and a taking 
Awful bad the Ma'am is in ; 
Not to help her would be sin. 
Please your Body, deuce is in't, 
That his name in daily print 
Showeth to disparagement ; 
All conceivable ill brewing, 
Every sort of mischief doing. 
John Smith now in county prison, 
Now a Jack upon the mizen, 
Bachelor to-day, — to-morrow 
With nine children, to his sorrow. 
All professions, every trade 
Claiming still his ready aid. 
At a stall, quack nostrums vending, 
Flaws in musty parchments mending, 
Holding forth with pulpit thump, 
Caucusing on western stump, 
Drawing phrenologic chart. 
Meekly driving drayman's cart, 
Writing novels, like Sir Walter, 
Candidate for gallows-halter, 


Jockey, betting on his nag, 
Deacon, handing round the bag f 
Quoted for connubial bliss, 
Snatching the forbidden kiss, 
Pattern to all married life, 
Choking nigh to death his wife, 
Never known to mingle drink, 
Picked up drunk from kennel-sink, 
Peace between his neighbors making, 
Caged for brawls and window-breaking, 
Charitable, very, — cursed 
Of all misers as the worst, 
Of the women dreadful 'fraid is, 
Rude and saucy to the ladies, 
Published, shortly to be wed, 
Solemnly announced as dead, 
All too young his teens to fill, 
Sole survivor Bunker Hill. 
Time would fail to tell your worships, 
Barns do n't burn in quiet, nor ships 
"Well insured go down at sea, 
Theft or suicide, but he 
Has a finger in the pie ; — 
Every Charley tips the sly 
Wink, as if forsooth to say 
" We have met before to-day ; " 
Every loafer claims acquaintance, 
Every pauper asks a maint'nance. 
Your petitioner, to his shame, must 
Still be greeted by this name, cursed ; 
But, kind legislators ! spare 
John Smith Senior's son and heir. 


Let it please the General Court, 
That his boy may 'scape sucb sport, 
By the adding of a letter, — 
Or a middle would be better, 
If a name of goodly sound, 
Filling up, complete and round. 
Any one that 's serious, proper, 
That to witlings may be stopper. 
And, as your petitioner " Wesley " 
Has been reading lately, bless ye — 
Why not call him Wesley ? John 
Wesley Smith ? — and father, son, 
And all the little Smiths will pray 
Ye may flourish many a day, 
In virtues, honors, pleasures, health — 
God save the Commonwealth ! 

John Smith. 


Childhood, its little grief 
May on a mother's breast 

Repose, and find relief — 

Where childish cares have rest. 

But what for Age remains ? 

Age — with neglect and gloom ! 
Where may it hide its pains, 

But in the friendly tomb ! 




They say the goblet 's crowned with flowers, 

And round its brim do brightly shine, 
Like gems, remembered joys and hours, 

The treasures of immortal wine ; — 
We know the cup is wreathed with plants 

More deadly than the Upas tree; 
Its richest recollection haunts 

The soul with all that 's misery. 

They say the wine has potent spell 

To wean the thought from ills away, 
And raise the drooping one to dwell 

Where dreamy night is changed to day; — 
We deem the wretch may never know 

The meaning of unmixed despair, 
Till, tempted by his direst foe, 

He seeks the cup, and finds it there. 

Some vow, in unextinguished hate, 

With Alcohol no terms to hold ; — 
" From all that can intoxicate ! " 

We write upon our banner's fold ; — 
For w r e, the sorts, have marshaled strong 

On fields that wear our fathers' name; 
Their glorious dust gives back the song 

Once more, of freedom and of fame. 

Nor marches in our ranks the slave, 

That dares his heritage to stain ; 
Not one to clank above the grave 

Of tyranny, a sensual chain. 


Ob, no ! — did round it pleasant flowers 
Of wooing tints and fragrance twine, 

We are the free, and 't is not ours 
In bonds to tarry at the wine. 


Hurrah ! hurrah ! we 've burst the chain — 

O God ! how long it bound us ! 
We run ! we leap ! God, again 

Thy light thy air surround us. 
From midnight's dungeon-depths brought out, 

We hail Hope's rising star ; 
Ho, comrades ! give the hearty shout, 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 

The world has kissed the tyrant's throne, — 

The Beast ! the Man of Sin ! 
" Legion ! " " Apollyon ! " * better known 

As Brandy, Beer, or Gin ! 
Housed up at Reason's clarion cry, 

We go to holy war, 
To slay the dragon, or to die ! 

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! 

* The title, Apollyon, Abaddon, the destroyer, the name ascribed to the 
angel of the abyss, king and head of the apocalyptic locusts, may well be 
applied to Prince Alcohol, emphatically " The Destroyer." 


Hurrah ! hurrah ! there 's joy within, 

Where all before was woe ; 
And sunk is Passion's dreadful din, 

And crushed for aye 's the foe. 
Yet one charge more in glorious strife, 

Stout hearts ! to end the war ; 
'T is done — and saved are babes and wife ; 

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! 

Debased by drink, we 'd lost the sign 

Of manhood, God impressed — 
The open face, the look divine — 

To show what He had blest. 
Behold ! erect ! with honest brow, 

Restored to Nature's law — 
We 're men ! we 're men ! heaven knows us now ; 

Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! 

Of ten, all cleansed, did one return 

To bless the healing hour ? 
All of our rescued thousands burn 

To praise redeeming power. 
Come ! bless God now ! and what for us 

He 's done — so reads the law — 
We 'll do for others, and the curse 

Root out — hurrah ! hurrah ! 

Tom Moore may drug the golden cup 
With costly pearls, that shine 

Bright as his face, and drink them up 
Dissolved in rosy wine ; 


In undiluted streams we dip 

Our crystal glasses — nor 
Refuse the pledge will Woman's lip — 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! we Ye burst the chain ; 

God ! how long it bound us ! 
We run ! we leap ! God, again 

Thy light, thy air surround us. 
From midnight's dungeon-depths brought out, 

We hail hope's rising star ; 
Ho, comrades ! give the hearty shout, 

Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! 


We 've heard that round the wine-cup's brim 

A thousand pleasures stray, 
And that strong drink has wondrous power 

To drive dull care away ; — 
But we have seen the flashing light 

Which from the goblet came, 
Lead, like the meteor, on to tears, 

And wretchedness, and shame. 

We 've heard that though 't is well enough 

For men the pledge to sign, 
Yet youth need never be in haste 

Their freedom to resign ; — 



But we are sure ill habits formed 

In youth, destroy the man ; 
And we '11 secure us from the snare 

Thus woven, if we can. 

Ay, let him boast of freedom, who 

To appetite 's a slave, 
And in that war for poverty 

And ruin, is so brave ! 
'T will serve his comrades, who, like him, 

Are fettered by the curse ; 
But coaxing, fooling, will not do 

For Temperance Boys like us ! 

The children in Chaldea's court, 

Who would not drink the wine, 
Not only fair in flesh were seen, 

But wisdom had, divine. 
Like them, we choose the generous draught, 

God's cool sweet springs supply ; 
And at the last, those streams, of which 

Who drink, shall never die. 


Of old, Anacreon woke the song 
In praise of wine ; the joyous throng 
He led, and with seducing strain 
Allured, they drank and drank again. 

( 295) 

His lyre to witching measure strung, 
The poet thus of pleasure sung: 
" Within this goblet, rich and deep, 
I cradle all my woes to sleep." 

In latter days, the Teian's theme 

Was still the same — the drunkard's dream, 

The drunkard's waking thought's employ, 

Was still to catch the flying joy ; 

In social mirth, in secret hour, 

He owned the tempter's subtle power, 

And in the goblet, rich and deep, 

Would fain have cradled Care to sleep. 

Yet praise we give ! — it could not last ; 
The red wine's tyranny is past ; 
No more the soul of sensual song 
" Expires the silver harp along ; " 
Exalted man shakes off, at length, 
The sordid sin, and rallies strength; 
For in the goblet, rich and deep, 
He sees is Virtue lulled to sleep. 

With more than Bacchanalian zest 

Our lip the healthful cup hath pressed ; 

The chrysolite itself is dim 

To waters sparkling on its brim ; 

No ruined joys are here, no child 

Of beggary, no mother wild. 

Such woes this goblet, rich and deep, 

Has cradled to eternal sleep. 



" Every Quakeress is a lily." 

City of Penn ! thy streets 
Right-angled, marble banks, mint, heaving domes, 
And water-works, and Schuylkill, yielding sweets, 

And pleasant homes, 

And sober denizens, 
I love. — Thy merchants, lawyers, reckoned wise — 
And, more than all, thy beauteous citizens 

Who own bright eyes, 

I love ; — confessedly 
As fair as any famous Broadway boasts, 
Or belles of Washington, though fair they be, 

Or Boston toasts. 

As stately Junos, seem 
Thy queenly women, who, on Chestnut street, 
Display, like flitting visions of a dream, 

Their pretty feet. 

How charming the array 
They make, when the tired wing of evening droops ! 
How dazzling ! when, in face of envious day, 

They pass in troops. 

Loveliest of short or tall, 
And most bewitching in her modest dress, 
Is she, who wins all hearts, above them all — 

The Quakeress. 

( 297 ) 

When almost blinded 
By gorgeous beauty, on the promenade, 
How soothing 't is to meet — hast thou not minded ? — 

A Quaker maid, 

In her becoming dress, 
With bonnet, or of drab, or purest white ; 
Fragrant as lily of the wilderness, 

As sweet to sight. 

A company of such 
I 've seen in spring-time, where thy Arch street runs, 
Gathering to meeting. They resembled much 

The Shining Ones 

Glittering along the way 
In crowds : — This simile is borrowed, I 
Would rather liken them to flowers in May, 

Early and shy. 

The Quakeress is fair, 
And all adorned in her simplicity ; 
Candid as Heaven made her, every where 

Lovely to me. 

And yet her proper throne 
Is home ; — there shines the Quakeress. 
Good sense, good humor, kindness, all her own, 

Are there to bless. 

Oh, were her guileless speech, 
And open artlessness, but copied, then 
Would other towns, like thee, bland lessons teach, 

City of Penn ! 



Rain ! Rain ! from out thy clouds, 

O God of Nature pour ; 
Refresh the panting earth 

With thy abundant store ; 
For thy death-angel spreads his wings* 
Of withering, o'er our lakes and springs. 

Rain ! Rain ! the cracking ground 

Sends columns forth of heat ; 
'T is yellow brass above, 

'T is dust beneath our feet. 
The tasselled corn hangs down its head, 
The bearded rye and wheat are dead. 

Rain ! Rain ! or life will fail ; 

Fast fails its only staff; 
Turn not our wells to rocks, 

Turn not our bread to chaff. 
Let not our poor, unnoticed, cry ; 
Let not our children, famished, die. 

Pray on ! — the pregnant cloud 

Lies ready in God's fist, 
And prayer can force it out, 

And empty 't as ye list. 
Ye 've prayed ? — to prayer ! to prayer ! again ; 
So may He give the gracious Rain. 



" The Plague ! the Plague ! bring out your dead ! " 
Through all our land the cry 
Rang shrilly forth. " We bring our dead ! " 
Was murmured in reply. 

" The Plague ! " more fierce than that which sweeps 
The Orient with power, 
Where Death, the busy toiler, reaps 
A province in an hour. 

And still no art could stay the sore ; 

By night and day it ran ; 
Till written on our nation's door 

Was " Lazarett of Man." 

To touch and taste, to taste and die, 

And fill the drunkard's grave, 
Her thousands dared, till from the sky 

Came Abstinence to save. 

Now we are healed ! yet at the pool 

Lie many in their sin, 
The moderate mad, the ruined fool, — 

No angel puts them in. 

Ay, angel Temperance never tires, 

But healing wing doth plume, 
Where soaring faith itself expires, 

And hope is in the tomb. 


Shout, Drunkard ! shout ! your chain of steel 

Is sundered, link by link ; 
Shout, Maker ! Vender ! you can feel ; 

Shout, Children ! you may think. 

And Woman, in whose halcyon breast 

The star of hope doth shine, 
Would shout — but tears reveal the rest — 

Lord God ! the work is thine. 


One day in merry June, I, then a lad, 

Strolled forth with a companion — one who had 

Strange curiosity, that often led 

His footsteps to the mansions of the dead ; 

And he the way directed thither. Soon 

"We stumbled on the grave-stones, that in noon 

Glared scorchingly. Anon, along the grass 

In thoughtlessness we passed and did repass, — 

Reading quaint rhymes ; and frequently we knelt, 

Closely to search how epitaphs were spelt, 

Trying in cherub's stony face to scan 

Some likeness, or of angel or of man. 

Till, presently, we chanced upon a tomb, 

Whose rusty bolt had been forced backward, — room 

Wanted for some new tenant. — Cheerful day 

Looked on its sullen chamber ; sunbeams lay, 


Unwonted, on the floor, and glanced along 
On coffins, ranged in undistinguished throng. 
I was a dreamer, then, about all things 
Connected with the dead ; the secret springs 
That move imagination, I nor knew 
Nor cared about ; but as religion, true, 
Held all the stories which do appertain 
To spirit-worlds, nor had such learned in vain; 
And therefore, tremblingly, I stole a glance 
At the dread cavern's secrets. Not so he, 
My comrade, who with jesting, carelessly 
Groped down the steps, and rudely raised a lid, 
That from the eye Decay's sad doings hid. 

I never may forget what then I saw ! 
Years have passed since, but, true to memory's law, 
That spectacle is fresh to memory now, 
As when I bent o'er that sepulchre's brow. 
I see her still ! how painfully ! — a woman, young 
She seemed, who lay there. As if she had flung 
But lately, her tired limbs upon that bed — 
Pressing its pillow, easily, her head 
Did seem reclining. Yet methought sweet sleep 
It was not — but a stern repose, more deep, 
That knew not, though the hungry reptile left 
His slime upon her cheeks. Ay, when he reft 
His horrid meal from lips that chid him not ! 
Suffice it that I, shuddering, left the spot, 
With thoughts which time has but confirmed, that we 
Should render all due rites that Decency, 
Love and Religion ask, to those who die ; 
But never, the Tomb's mysteries to descry, 
Should we with curiosity explore 




The place of the departed. Buried, then, 

Oh, let their dust be sacred from the ken 

Of human eye ! Not tomb of Pere-la-Chaise, 

Mount Auburn, Laurel Hill, with sculpture gay, 

Or gayer flowers, to me hath any charm ; — 

J T is but a tomb. Give me, for slumber, calm, 

The quiet grave, where dust, once hid, may lie 

Secure from vulgar handling ; where the eye 

Of love is satisfied, if on the sod 

It rests, of him whose spirit is with God. 


By awful influence, only lent 

To raise and bless thy fellow creature, 
The power for good or ill intent 

That shapes the soul's eternal feature, — 


By day's out-clamors of distress, 
Sorrows that nightly walk the city, 

Mutations, strange, heart-wrecks that press 
Their silent siege upon thy pity, — 


By Childhood's garden run to weeds, 

Blank Mind that never knowledge tasted, 

Soil where the foe hath scattered seeds, 
Strong Intellect deceived and wasted, — 




By Vice that boldly storms thy door, 
By secret Guilt, escaping sentence, 

By that lost youth who 'd sin no more 

Did word of thine but hint " repentance," — 


By Innocence betrayed, by damned 
Illusions at the drunkard's revels, — 

All devils round him, known or shammed, 
Himself, poor wretch ! the prince of devils, • 


By our three millions, lifting chains 

In sight of Lust and Knavery, 
That soul and body coin for gains 

In the hell-mint of Slavery, — 


By Orient Mind that never thinks, 

Starting, at length, from bands of Error, 

Closer to hug the dreadful links, 

Or vainly battle with their terror, — 


By moral darkness wrapping still 

The Occident, from Plymouth's portals 

To Prairie-climes, where giant ^Vill 
Is blessing, cursing vast immortals, — 




Lift ye my country's banner high, 
And fling abroad its gorgeous sheen ; 

Unroll its stripes upon the sky. 
And let its lovely stars be seen. 

Blood, blood, is on its spangled fold, 
Yet from the battle comes it not ; 

God ! all the seas thy channels hold, 
Can ne'er wash out the guilty spot. 

Those glorious stars and stripes, that led 

Our lion-hearted fathers on, 
Vailed only to the honored dead — 

Beaming where fields and fame were won ■ 

Those symbols that to kings could tell 
Our young republic's rising fame, 

And speak to falling realms the knell 
Of glory past, of future shame — 

Dishonored shall they be by hands 
On which a sacrament doth lie ? 

The light that heralded to lands 
Immortal glory — must it die ? 

No ! let the earthquake-utterance be 

From thousand swelling hearts — not so ! 

And let one voice from land and sea, 
Return indignant answer — no ! 

( 305) 

Up, then ! determine, dare and do, 

What justice claims, what freemen may ; 

What Heaven, my country, asks of you, 
While yet its muttering thunders stay ; 

That thou forever from this soil 

Bid Slavery''^ withering blight depart ; 

And to the wretch restore the spoil, — 
Though thou may'st not the broken heart. 

That thou thy brother from the dust 
Lift up, and speak his spirit ^/ree/ 

That millions whom thy crime hath curst, 
May blessings plead on thine and thee. 

Then to the universe wide spread 
Thy glorious stars, without a stain ; 

Bend from your skies, illustrious Dead ! 
The world ye won is free again. 


I trod the walks and velvet green 

That carpet Auburn's place of tombs, 
And vainly sought — they were not seen — 

For burial damps and gathered glooms. 
But in their stead the voice of bird 

And insects' hum and south wind's breath, 
And babbling brook my spirit stirred 

To thoughts that tarry not with Death. 



'Tis surely sweet to linger thus 

In hidden dell and fairy grove, 
That seem unconscious of the curse, 

That show Earth still has much to love. 
Yet as I gaze on chiseled stone 

And gorgeous marble, rich and rare, 
Admiring Art, I feel alone, — 

I deem not that the Dead are there. 

It seems not that the early lost 

Are shut up in these lovely hills ; 
That he, on life once rudely tost, 

Is calmly resting by these rills. 
From scenes enchanting as are these, 

Thought winged with pleasure gaily springs, 
Yet wrapt in what Time has to please, 

It mounts not to eternal things. 

I love the taste and pious skill 

That decorate this place of rest, 
So delicate, so charming — still 

I love the village church-yard best. 
For as I watch its simple flowers 

That bloom without the gardener's care 
On graves that lie to sun and showers — 

I feel, I feel the Dead are there. 




" Seeing some colored men at work, leveling and turfing the ground 
about the sepulchre, which had the appearance of neglect and decay, I 
wa9 induced, by the deep interest with which they labored, to inquire 
whether they were slaves of the family. 'No,' said they, 'we are Gen- 
eral Washington's servants ; survivors of those whom he set free at his 
death ; and we have come, as volunteers, to improve the grounds near his 
tomb, as a testimony of our love and gratitude.' The National Monu- 
ment Society, which proposed, years ago, to build the monument of Wash- 
ington, by subscriptions from American citizens, confined the privilege of 
subscribing to white citizens ; and these freedmen could not be allowed to 
aid in the work ! " 

We garnish the grave of the Chief — 

Good men will not deem it the worse 
That such testimonial of grief 

Is gratefully rendered by us ; 
For who may restore this sad wreck, 

But the cleansed from Humanity's stain ? 
What hands should his sepulchre deck, 

But those that he freed from the chain ? 

Toil, brothers ! — the ringdove has nest 

In the quiet and cool of this shade ; 
To tarry, she knows herself blest, 

Where excellence lowly is laid. 
The small birds have liberty here, 

On this mountain to build as they list ; 
And ranges the beautiful deer 

Where its base by Potomac is kissed. 

Prune, brothers ! these cedars, that bend 

In negligence over his tomb ; 
Teach, brothers ! these flowers to lend 

New beauties and richer perfume. 


(308 ) 

Let us trim the luxuriant grass, 

Which carpets the place of his dust, 

That pilgrims may pleasantly pass 
To the coveted shrine of the First. 

These bowers, what thousands have sought ! 

These windings, what thousands shall throng ! 
Though ages, what bards will have caught 

Here afflatus for glorious song ! 
Yet this, the exalted of graves, 

Above other sepulchres crowned, 
Is seen in the precincts of slaves — 

In the strong hold of bondage is found ! 

The rich for his pile will bestow, 

Whose glory makes diadems dim ; 
Yet we may not do it, although 

Our love flows as warmly for him. 
Will he look down from heaven, to smile 

On marble that 's heaped o'er his grave 
By men that would honor him, while 

They make of their fellow a slave ? 

The stones of the quarry would cry 

To the rock upon which it was built; 
And the Just, who has noticed the sigh 

Of the captive, would visit their guilt. 
A monument reared up by such, 

His frowning memorial would be 
Of righteous displeasure, who much 

Desireth the bond to be free. 


'T would stand to the nations a mark 

Keproaching eternally those 
Who prate about Liberty's spark. 

And yet to its kindlings are foes. 
A terrible record of Truth — 

'T would point, as with finger of flame ; 
And its characters, blazing his worth, 

Would light down to ages their shame ! 

But no ! they may chisel the stones, 

And for its foundations dig deep, 
That centuries may pause where the bones 

Of the world's only patriot sleep ; 
They may do it — but never shall rise 

Such fruit of hypocrisy's toil ; 
His monument greets not the skies, 

Till slavery is swept from our soil ! 

The millions for Cecrops that toiled, 

And sank on the marshes of Nile, 
In their folly, stupendous, were foiled; 

Though carved they Eternity's pile. 
The millions that rear up this hour, 

Our citadel, build not in vain ; — 
'T is rising ! and proudly will tower, 

When pyramids litter the plain. 

Toil, brothers, to garnish the spot 

Of Freedom's, of Washington's sleep ; 

Where Virtue may ponder, but not 
Where Crime may in mockery weep. 


The labor we freely bestow, 

To purchase, too poor were a throne ; 
And to him that has left us, we know 

'T is sweet — for 't is Gratitude's own. 


Two partners traded in that busy town — 

The Bay State's glory. Winged with fair renown, 

Their names flew wide. The good old fashioned rule 

Contented them, taught in the Christian school, 

To do to others as they still required 

Others to do to them. Their hearts inspired 

With charity, they gave the liberal gold. 

Their love for Jesus and for souls complete, 

They wanderers won to the Redeemer's fold, — 

Sitting, themselves, like children, at His feet. 

Thus years rolled on, and thus old age drew nigh, 

Without its Winter. Or to live or die 

Was Christ or gain to these of upward wing, 

Whose spirits reveled in perpetual Spring. 

The junior sickened — died — his end was peace. 

Yet can the union of the righteous cease ? 

Scarce four brief moons had filled their silver horn 

Ere saw the senior rays that sweetly dawn 

And break in glory, and on shores of bliss 

He met his partner with an angel's kiss. 

Now, to their myriad gaze who walk in white, 

Shine Homes & Homer in excess of light. 1845. 



Illustrating a Picture. 

" "Well, now I have bent this sapling right ; 
*T is small and lithe, and 1 11 soon make tight 
This cord, and the noose I '11 cunningly fix, 
And the rabbit will find I 'm up to tricks. 
He '11 not be the first that 's seen my trap, — 
The spoils of many are in my cap ! 
'T is sport — yet something in me stings, 
When I think of the gentle, timid things ; 
How carelessly I 've contrived their death, 
As if I 'd a right to stop their breath ! 
I wish I knew a way to take 
The varlets alive, for Sally's sake ; 
She often begs me to save her one, 
To be her pet, and share in her fun." 

Thoughtless, and simple, and happy boy ! 

A lesson learn from thy rural toy. 

Others are busily toiling as thou, 

Snares are artfully woven now ! 

The earth, the air, the smiling sea, 

Are full of traps and nets for thee. 

Beware of pleasure ! — should'st thou sip, 

The rose from thy cheek, the dew from thy lip 

Would quickly pass, and the cruel dart 

Of keen remorse would pierce thy heart. 

In vain, in the sight of any bird, 

Is the net prepared — thou 'st seen and heard ! 

Oh ! look in thy youth to heaven in prayer, 

And He that 's strong will save from the Snare. 



This is thy grave. I 'd rather sleep 
Thus, with a guardian God alone, 

Than, helmed by ranks of cowering men, 
To occupy Napoleon's throne. 

This is thy grave. Such resting-place 
Be mine, wet with the earnest tear, — 

Rather than heaped with gems and crowns 
The monarch-murderer's guilty bier. 

This is thy grave. I 'd choose the sigh 
Which wakens at thy honored name, 

Before the shouts that thundered round 
The living, lost Napoleon's fame. 

This is thy grave. Such funeral step 
I'd choose, for me, of honest men, 

Before the kingly pomp that bore 
The dead Napoleon home again. 

This is thy grave. When he 's forgot, 
Or only named as " Anger's rod," 

Thou 'It live in Virtue's heraldry — 
Thy title, " Friend of Man and God." 

* The distinguished Advocate of Peace. 



Cease, proud Britons ! cease your boastings, 

Dropping like perpetual rain ; 
Threats are cheap, and endless railing 

Is as foolish as 't is vain. 
We alike your wordy terrors 

And your pity must refuse ; — 
Insolence from haughty nobles, 

Wit from Dickens' " Daily News." 

That our sires were English blooded 

Plainly tells our pilgrim stock ; 
That they owned the Saxon spirit 

You may read on Bunker's rock. 
That we speak with British accent, — 

That our thoughts like Briton's flow, — 
Ask, if we will yield to threatening ? 

Eighteen millions answer, NO ! 

Yet we 're peaceful ; — while the tumults 

Of old Europe hurry on, 
Our young Nation sits contented 

With the boon her founders won. 
And she 's happy ; — Victory's laurels 

With the olive-blossoms meet, 
Art and Commerce, Thrift and Labor, 

Pour their riches at her feet. 



We the sweets of Peace have tasted ; 

Our Republic's breadth and length 
Know what influence has cemented 

Her in power and wealth and strength. 
Shall we squander real enjoyment 

For the misery War has won ? 
Shall we barter wide-spread Plenty 

For the barren Oregon ? 

Why should we the thousand channels 

Force aside that fill our cup ? 
Why on Conflict's horrid altar 

Burn our dearest treasures up ? 
We have nought to win by quarrel, 

Much to lose ; — defeat 's a curse ; 
If we crush your fleets and armies 

What will be the gain to us ? 

Not by conquests can a people 

Their position elevate ; 
Perish the unworthy notion ! 

Perish rivalry and hate ! 
Perish brutal War forever ! 

Dovelike Peace, throughout the world 
Fly with healing wings, wherever 

Once the cloud of battle curled ! 

While we smile at crown and sceptre, 
To which peers and princes kneel, 

Men of England ! we true pity 
For your weeping millions feel. 


"Would we deeper crush the guiltless 
Whom the iron foot hath trod ? 

Would we lacerate and trample 
Bleeding hearts ? — forbid it, God ! 

We would meet you as invaders ! 

Give you cheer instead of scorn ! 
Fight and vanquish Ireland's famine 

With our potent wheat and corn ! 
Such a victory do we covet 

As would bless your queenly isle, 
And from John 0' Groat's to Land's End 

Light up England with a smile. 

Wait a little ; study patience ; 

Let not every idle note 
Carried over the Atlantic 

Seem a roar from Battle's throat. 
They who fume and fret are madmen ; 

Even now their ravings cease ; 
Patience ! till our thoughtful Senate 

In its wisdom utters Peace. 


I walked in Portsmouth ; 't was the place 
Of boyhood, and though changed its face, 
Though to the grave had journeyed down 
The fathers of that ancient town ; 


Though of its thousands very few 
Returned my greeting, whom I knew, 
And I was stranger to the door, 
That sheltered once my only store ; 

Yet was it pleasant, and J t was sad ; 
I sorrowed straight, and straight was glad ; 
For those, who long had ceased to be 
On earth, came back and walked with me. 

They looked the same ; and yet they seemed 
More spiritual — as I have dreamed 
Angels may seem ; and in their eyes 
Was something of the starry skies. 

They smiled on me ; but sadly smiled ; 
As pitying the imprisoned child 
Yet doomed for heavy days to groan, 
In folly's desert left alone. 

I knew them ! — one of matron grace ; 
One had sweet girlhood in her face ; 
Heirs of perennial beauty, they 
Gained when earth's beauty passed away. 

And one was there of reverend mien, 
Our pastor, when with mortals seen ; 
Another — my dull heart waxed warm, 
I strove to clasp my father's form. 

I strove to ask him, why these years 
He 'd left me to my weary tears ; 
" father, I 've had need of thee, 
I Ve missed a hand to strengthen me." 



Wings sparkled — they were gone — the air 
Grew redolent ; 't was fragrance there. 
The gales of Beulah sighed along, 
And breathed aroma in their song. 

I may not say what string was swept ; 
'T was tenderness, 't was love — I wept 
To join them. my soul, how blest 
To fly away and be at rest ! 

The memory of the righteous lives ; 
Their name perpetual odor gives ; 
They 're here — and heaven about is spread, 
When with us are the precious Dead. 


I thought not of the inspiration lent 

To cunning hand and head, the toil achieving ; 

The pious heart, its mission well believing, 

O'er which, for years, the Solitary bent, 

That mission to fulfil his one intent ; 

Nor of the skill, nor impudent unpriced 

Triumphant boldness, thus to chisel Christ ! 

Looking — my troubled, weeping soul outwent 

To seek her Lord ; and from the Jewish hill 

Upspringing to the right hand of the throne, 

Saw where that drooping Head with stars was crowned ; 

Saw where that mocked One in His glory shone; 

And, gazing up in those dear eyes, she found 

Unutterable love ! — solemn her joy, and still. 




Ay, flap jour wings, ill-omened birds, 

Impatient for your prey ; 
Infest in swarms the Chinese seas, 

For who shall utter < ; Nay ! " 
Watch for the moment to inflict 
Foul wrong, in spite of interdict. 

What though your fearful errand 's fraught 
With death, death which is hell — 

And by the traffic Mercy bleeds, 
Flock on, for all is well ; 

The end shall justify the means — 

Your trade is nursed by kings and queens. 

Through all her unoffending realm 
The ripened plague-spot bear, 

Till China is one lazar-house 
Of misery and despair. 

Let Avarice urge your flowing sails, 

Let Selfishness bestow the scales. 

The Upas flings its poison forth, — 

In this resembling ye ; 
And woe to bird or beast or man, 

That sees the fatal tree. 
The Upas to one spot 's confined, 
Ye carry death on every wind. 

( 319 ) 

And laugh, ye men, as their vile chain 

Your idiot victims hug ; 
And mock, as they suck endless pain 

From your forbidden drug. 
What 's law to him who wins the goal ? 
Compared to money, what 's the soul ? 

Ye may, ye may, for Christians choose 

That deed to fill the purse, 
Which " scoundrel pagans " would refuse 

With scorn to do to us. 
Yet pause, beware, and fear the rod, — 
Though conscience sleeps, there wakes a God ! 


After the great Fire of 1839. 

Boston ! that sittest in thy pride, 

A very queen — 
Whose arms to the afflicted, wide 

Open are seen — 
Who never, on thy noble throne, 

By Commerce built, 
Didst close thy ears to Misery's moan, 

And never wilt ; — 
Where art thou, while the dreadful cries 

Of houseless hundreds ring? 
Where art thou, while the bitter sighs 

The Southern breezes bring, 


Of those who draw the panting breath, 

Whose home, the flames 
Have swept away, whose bodies, Death 

Eagerly claims? 

Hast thou not heard that yonder Mart, 

Whose thousand ships 
Find mighty Trade's remotest heart, 

Wherever dips 
The needle, hath the element 

Laid waste ? 
That Death hath noonday arrows spent, 

With fearful haste, 
Among her proudest, loveliest ? — 

On his pale steed 
How sat the rider ! Now do rest 

Where worms shall feed, 
Her children, on whom yester's sun 

Did gaily shine — 
To pleasure, love, and life's joys won, 

Freely as thine ! 

Think ! — they are of thy flesh and bone, 

Blood of thy blood ; 
They kneel with thee at Freedom's throne, 

They worship God ; 
Thy wandering sons and daughters they, 

With generous heat 
For their loved mother in the North, away, 

Their pulses beat ; 
And never would their hearts be lapped 

In selfish ease, 
Did Fire thy fair possessions wrap, 

Thy sons, Disease. 


By dear humanity's sweet claim, 

By pity's gem — 
By pride, ambition, yes, by shame, 

Look thou to them ! 


A young man in Cambridge lately undertook, for a wager, to walk 
one thousand miles in one thousand consecutive hours, and accomplished 
the feat. 

He chose the spot, the ground surveyed, 

And carefully the place 
Examined, where he might with Time 

Contend in equal race. 

He trained his body to the task ; 

To this his mind he schooled : 
For one absorbing object, he 

All other objects ruled. 

Sense, will, affection, end and aim, 

On this alone were fixed ; 
With this great purpose of the heart 

"Was every purpose mixed. 

He cast aside each clogging weight — 
Was odds with cumbering care ; 

Encouraged hope, and looked on fear 
Of failure as a snare. 



Behold him on his cheerful way ! 

Like needle to the pole 
He steadily pursues the path 

That points the hourly goal. 

Onward ! nor yet to the right hand, 

Nor to the left he turns ; 
Allurement, to mislead his step, 

Or hinder him, he spurns. 

Your way is barren — leave the track ; 
The field-flowers to you cry; 

no, for if I stray for flowers, 
A losing man am I. 

Your travel thirst induces ; lo, 
The sparkling, ruby bowl ! 

1 touch not, else to loss of race 

I add the loss of soul. 

The sun rides high ; 't is noontide heat — 

No more the shadows stalk ; 
0, rest thee — nay, my hour is come, 

And I, perforce, must walk. 

The storm is up ! yon ebon cloud 

Is edged with fiery light ; 
The thunder speaks — stay ! no, I walk 

In angry tempest's spite. 

Now, while the worn-out world is wrapt 
In dreams, thou 'It surely sleep ; 

The veriest slave enjoys it — no ! 
I, walking, vigils keep. 

( 320 ) 

Yet sjuinber shall beguile thee, man, 
When midnight hath thee crossed ; 

No ! for I hear the midnight cry : 
" Wake ! wake ! or all is lost ! " 

Thus goes he on the beaten way, 

Like needle to the pole ; 
And steadily pursues the path 

That points the hourly goal. 

A thousand miles a thousand hours 

Must witness duly past ; 
0, wearily the index moves ; 

It touches " twelve " at last. 

And this, to compass treasures ? — no ; 

A fraction of the dross 
Only rewards his patient toil, 

That might have won but loss. 

A paltry silver bribe hath power, 
Will, love and sense to bind, 

And, to indomitable pains, 
Task, mightily, a Mind. 

Was such his fading prize, for which 

He obstacles put down ? 
My soul ! what hast thou done for thine 

Imperishable crown? 



Dr. Parker and his wife, missionaries to China, sailed from Boston, Juno 
13, 1842, for Canton, in the ship Mary Ellen. They received a free passage 
from the owners. Religious services were performed on board, in presence 
of a large number of friends, who had collected to bid them farewell. 

I praise not one of woman's mould, 

Though faultless she may be, — 
She 's feminine, and yet a bold 

Sojourner of the sea; 
She holds within her graceful arms 

Those who depart to pray ; 
And, every step revealing charms, 

Goes on her quiet way. 

For China ! — takes she men to dip 
Their hands in brothers blood ? 

no ! this is the Mission Ship, 
And these are sent of God. 

And pleasant is it to believe 

That shores by monsoons kissed, 

And pressed by pagans, shall receive 
The good Evangelist. 

1 hear the hymn, I join the prayer, 

And watch the snowy wings 
Which Mary Ellen to the air, 

Like some swift angel flings. 
Hush, now ! for here 's the silent grasp, 

Such as men give at death ; 
And here 's affection's straining clasp, 

When mingling parting breath. 


How beautifully she behaves ! 

She tosses off the spray 
As coyly as the bird that laves 

Its plumage in the bay. 
Gaze ye ! for starry eyes look down 

From battlements of bliss ; 
And saints forget their harp and crown 

To look on sight like this. 

They see, too, ships, all bristling o'er 

With implements of strife, 
That seek the Asiatic shore 

In quest of human life. 
They look on her, who from her isle 

Commands the lawless deep ; 
If such in scorn can smile, they smile, 

If such can weep, they weep. 

Is 't well, Britannia ! war to wage 

On unoffending men, 
And loose, in its ungoverned rage, 

Your Lion from his den ? 
Is 't godlike to promulge decree 

At kingly Leadenhall, 
And pagan pride subdue to ye 

By bayonet and ball ? 

Is 't well, a realm so poor, so great, 
Whose millions beg their bread — 

For power should crush a foreign state ? 
For plunder, blood should shed ? 

A Christian nation, too, whose feet 
Have proud cathedrals trod ; — 



Your pious prayers and hymns, how sweet 
Their incense unto God ! 

Ambition whispers in your ear, 

And Mammon lures you on ; 
Your path is hell, — an angel's tear 

Blasts every laurel won. 
Yet go ! — a heartless queen and court 

By selfishness must rule, 
Till terribly is lesson taught 

In Retribution's school. 

0, when in blood you Ve washed away 

Her insult to your throne, 
And China, humbled to your sway, 

No more with realms is known — 
In your old temples chant " Amen ! " 

To loud Te Deum staves ; — 
You Ve made a continent of men 

A hemisphere of slaves. * 

Sail on ! sail on ! O, Mission Bark ! 

The church is still at sea ; 
Winds roar, waves tumble, skies are dark, 

And strong the tempests be. 
Yet winds and waves are in God's fists, 

And at His sovereign will, 
He chides all tumults as he lists, 

And storms and states are still. 

* " We have succeeded in enforcing upon China that immoral trade, for 
the love of which we have sacrificed so much credit. The opium traffic, 
we are told, under the protection of British guns, goes on most swimming- 
ly." — London Times, 


On, lovely Mary Ellen ! — fling 

Your ribands to the gale, — 
He, who from evil good can bring, 

Is with you as you sail. 
Seek ocean's depths, and ride the brink 

Of billows, as you may, — 
For kings shall reign, and thrones shall sink, 

As rage they, or obey. 


God bless the Puritan ! 
New England, as one man, 

Its parent stock 
Blesses, and aye will bless 
The exile of distress — 
Of wave and wilderness — 

Of Plymouth Eock. 

God bless the Puritan ! 
Whom king and bishop's ban 

Drove to this shore ; 
Whose prayers for Heaven's grace 
Rose in the tempest's face, 
Whose praises swelled the bass 

Of ocean's roar. 

He, when old despots swayed 
Sceptre in Britain, laid 

There, broad and deep, 


Foundation, on which stands 
The bulwark of all lands, 
The Liberty, thy hands, 
Creator ! keep. 

He, in this western clime, 
Example to all time 

Gave, of true law ; 
Confirmed by Nature's light, 
Fixed by Man's equal right, 
And, to keen Europe's sight, 

Without a flaw. 

The Puritan is dead ! 
His venerable head 

Pillows below. 
His grave is with us seen, 
'Neath Summer's gorgeous green, 
And Autumn's golden sheen, 

And Winter's snow. 

His monument, these homes, 
These city spires and domes, 

These hamlets are ; 
Science and teeming Art, 
And being's better part, 
The happy human heart — 

His deeds declare. 

We are his children ! we 
Sprang from that glorious tree, 
Whose healthful root 


The frosts and heats defied, — 
Whose trunk towers up in pride, 
Whose branch shoots far and wide, 
We are the fruit. 

Better than mines of gold, 
The legacy of old, 

Which he has given. 
The birthright of the Free 
To children's children, we 
Bequeath, so may they be 

Favorites of Heaven ! 

Who to himself takes shame, 
Scorning that stern old name, 

Let him depart ! 
Name, monarchs may not bear, 
Name, nobles may not share, 
Exultingly we wear, 

Linked to the heart. 

God bless the Puritan ! 
Shall not the world of man 

Echo the cry ? 
Yes, and his name shall spread, 
While Truth, he from the dead 
Exalted, lifts its head, 

Never to die ! 




Sung at the Anniversary of the Boston Seamen's Friend Society, in 
Park Street Church ; May 31, 1843. 

" All *s Well ! " the gangway sentry cries ; 

Her course she nobly keeps, 
And through the scud the good Ship flies, 

The beauty of the Deeps. 
He knows not that Remorse is loud, 

As silent midnight wanes ; 
And one poor wakeful wretch is bowed 

By anguish in the chains. 

" All 's Well ! "— to mock that cheerful cry, 

Comes wailing on the wind 
A groan, a sob, a stifled sigh, 

That speak a troubled mind. 
He knows not that of all, 'midships, 

The boldest at the gun, 
A tar is struck, and quivering lips 

Proclaim a soul undone. 

"All's Well! All's Well!" the sentry sings, 

The good Ship, trim and tight, 
In snowy flakes the foam-wreath flings 

Along her path of light. 
He knows not that the brighter ray 

Of Love that never wanes, 
Has chased his night of sin away, 

Who knelt amid the chains ! 




This Book, my Mother ! was designed for thee ; — 

Of fair exterior ; type, distinct and free ; 

That, gratefully, thine aged eyes might dwell 

On themes that pleased thy absent child so well. 

Time, in his flight, beholds my labor done, 

And thine, too, ended — thy glad rest begun. 

Another Volume is to thee unrolled ; 

By Angel hands is oped the page of gold 

Whose characters are stars of living light, 

Which thou wilt read with ever new delight ; 

For never tires the Poetry above, 

Whose theme, exhaustless, is Exhaustless Love. 

I've lost a want when asking at the throne ; 

Blest are the wants that daily God supplies 

When from the heart petitions daily rise ! — 

In all my suit thy constant name was known, 

With some fond thought, that virtue, pure as thine, 

Had power with Him for follies great as mine ; 

If wrong, forgive me, Heaven! — I've lost thy prayers ; 

In all my joys and ever present cares 

The dear belief still gave my heart repose 

That for its peace thy supplications rose. 

Such prayers are treasures of a Mother's love, 

Enjoyed on earth, yet safely stored above ; 

And, like her influence, silent, deep and wide, 

Still flowing onward in perpetual tide. 

To such rich streams are not the children heirs, 

When parents pass to where the Fountain flows ? 

From such bequest, laid up for me in Heaven, 

Shall not, oh Mother, yet supplies be given ! 1846. 



Note 1. " There is an hour of -peaceful rest." Page 1. 

This hymn was written by me, in Philadelphia, in the summer of 1818, for the 
Franklin Gazette, edited by Richard Bache, Esq., and was introduced by him to the 
public in terms sufficiently nattering to a young man who then certainly lacked confi- 
dence in himself. The piece was republished in England and on the continent, in 
various newspapers and magazines, and was also extensively circulated in my own 
native land, where it has found a place in several Hymn and Music Books. It was 
published in my first volume of Poems, at Philadelphia, in 1819, and soon after, was set 
to music by A. P. Heinrich, Esq., in the same city. I have said this much, because 
the hymn has been claimed by several writers in both hemispheres ; and has appeared 
with various names and signatures affixed. 

Note 2. u The Ivory Crucifx." Page 317. 

Referring to a remarkable statue of Christ on the Cross, carved from an im- 
mense block of ivory, by a Genoese Monk, in the convent of St. Nicholas. This is 
regarded as one of the most perfect specimens of sculpture in the world, and conveys I 
to the mind such an idea of the Saviour as every one would wish to receive and cherish. 
Aside from its intrinsic merit, as a work of art, this statue is a wonderful evidence of 
genius impelled by religious enthusiasm. It is known to be the first effort of the Artist 
Monk, who considered himself divinely inspired to execute his undertaking. This 
superstition is of course rejected; but the statue itself, with the circumstances of 
its history, may be considered as one of the most singular combinations ever wrought 
by mere human agency. 





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,/ /- J J.